


None the Wooster

by alivehawk1701



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivehawk1701/pseuds/alivehawk1701
Summary: Jeeves' POV, Bertie comes home far too drunk and acts on instinct, leaving Jeeves to wonder how/why/what shall I do, while Aunt Agatha has plans to set Bertie up with a new woman. Can Jeeves and Wooster traverse their new found knowledge of each other and avoid marrying a potentially dangerous mystery bride . . . ?
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 17
Kudos: 37





	1. A Late Night

It is not uncommon that I will spend a great deal, if not virtually my whole day, occupied entirely with shoes, hats, jacket, ties, or various other garments. Of course, that is to say nothing of travel times, appointments, correspondences whether by post or in person, all of which satisfy what time is left, if not simultaneously, with the former.

I mention the garments because while I consider them on a practical level, colour, pattern and so forth, I’ve been disturbingly unable to stop thinking of them on an impractical level, indeed on a personal level. Whilst repeatedly folding or hanging the same clothes, again and again, one can’t help but realize the company one keeps, as a valet, is in general reserved for items of the wool or cotton persuasion. One then must realize that an evening jacket, with very few exceptions, is a poor substitute for a real person.

Silent as garments, and myself, tend to be, words are never spoken to express the dismal nature of waiting up into the early hours of the morning for my master’s return. I wait to hear the stumbling from down the hall or retching from outside, as is another common occurrence, followed at some length by the sound of the front door opening. All details may vary to a degree but remain similar enough to produce the same cyclical conclusion night after night. I’m unable to deny, in these lonely hours, that I am by definition supposed to offer services attributable to a valet, not, if I may, those of a nurse maid or medic for my employer.

Returning to the topic of garments, not forsaking but foregoing my questionable occupational duties for now, I meant to make clear a train of thought which starts with the innocent and easily answered question of, whose garments are they? Not a trick question, no, a simple one. They are Mr. Bertie Wooster’s clothes.

None other, some would say. And it’s a great many jackets and a great many ties, all of his ownership. He has worn them, on varying occasions and in varying degrees of consciousness, and wear them again he shall.

It is such an aforementioned evening, ears cocked and waiting, which I am enduring now. And once again, seemingly against my own volition, I’m thinking about his garments in an impractical way despite all my training which insists I do otherwise. But then, my training consists of a great many things. I know all the rules of course, I hardly have to be reminded anymore, and if there were a single infallible manual I would have memorized it. But knowing how to serve hot soup versus cold soup or indeed how to be the most voiceless of shadows, has only gotten me so far. I’m still thinking about him. And not as a valet should. Not about appointments or dinner menus. I can smell him on his clothes and my mind wanders, it wanders far from here, and I worry.

You’d like to hear of my misspent youth I suppose, of how I learned to walk the straight and narrow, discarding a life of unruliness and wretchedness to don the attire of a meaningful life of respectful service. That’s one likely story. Another is that a person who has experienced an environment of sordidness and cruelty, let’s say an abusive father, would seek if not crave a life where they can feel that sense of inferiority in their day to day life, such treatment in their eyes registering as affection, the only kind they’ve known, to the point that abuse as a child can be the motivation behind their vocation, relationships, or even the working of their own heart.

This person might not love the same way you do.

The heart muscle may be stunted or scarred, mind you it still works somewhere between the barest sense of the word and impressively well, all depending of course on the person it belongs to.

I’ve no idea how my own heart is at this point, it has been a long and wearisome road thus far, and I avoid, if at all possible, the indulgence of self-examination or moreover self-pity. In any case, I severed connections with my past for a reason, several very good reasons actually, and I ran far enough and long enough to be virtually unrecognizable from whom I once was. And gladly so.

Being in Mr. Wooster's employ, tending to all his needs and wants, is in no way like my father’s actions towards me, I refuse to believe that. I don’t see the authority he has over me as degrading in any way, not really, I’m honored to serve him. I do my very best and he is grateful for my services. He need not know of my past, or the careless way my mind wanders, or indeed how I care deeply for his well being beyond my studious attention to ties, waistcoats, and socks. I like how he sees me now. And would he look upon me the same if he really knew me?

Just as I pricked my finger with the needle I heard a car outside, the rumble of its motor loud as if to clear its way of the night. My eyes dropped to the sock I was darning then shifted slowly up my exposed forearm, sleeves pushed up to work, and the scars seem brighter to me, more evident tonight, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s the light.

The clothes, I digress, are of great import because they are simply his. They’re his because he’s worn them. Time, I’ve come to perceive, spent with his clothes is like time spent with him. Though I prefer being in his immediate company, sometimes this is all I have. It’s better this way though, such affection for one’s employer, when even the simplest attachments are discouraged, can only lead to bad things.

It is a world which I am only allowed to occupy to a designated point. A sort of everyday fixture dare I say as inconsequential as a coat-stand or a lamp, hardly worth noticing, unless of course absent, in which case I, and my kind, or keenly missed.

Suddenly I heard a knock, or what would seem like a knock if memory serves, at the front door. Waiting a moment, I deduced that the preceding knock had not been a knock but rather Mr. Wooster running into the door before recovering to open it properly.

I took a few breathes as I stood up, filling my lungs, trying to prepare myself for the unfortunate task at hand. I ran a quick palm over my hair, exhaling sharply and pushed through the door.

"Jeeves!" Mr. Wooster exclaimed from where he stood at the front door, startled maybe, or surprised, though it was hard to distinguish which since his mouth was already hanging open. He seemed to close it deliberately, rearranging his tongue with such concentration his eyes squeezed shut before saying in a very unclear way, "You are here . . . here," I doubt he knew he was swaying, "That’s . . . that’s good, good because, because . . . you’re here," his eyes opened and he gained footing enough to stand still for a moment, pointing one swaying finger to the ground in a determined way and stated, "Here," which caused a smile.

"I trust sir had an enjoyable evening?" I ventured, walking carefully to his side to retrieve his hat and gloves.

"Of course I did, of course I did, of course I did," he rolled his eyes, and I felt certain he’d say "of course I did" one more time, but he didn’t, in fact he’d stopped smiling, eyes that were normally the most beautiful shade of blue were darkened, downcast and red, "But still," he looked up at me and I was unsure whether I should meet his gaze which seemed as unsteady as he was, until, through what seem simple force of will he made them stop at mine, "I decided to make my way back here before I got too drunk."

"Sir has an excellent gage of self-condition," I said, making a movement for his coat.

His form grew suddenly rigid as my fingers brushed the cloth of his coat and for a moment, from somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, I thought he was going to strike me. I’ve never done well with unanticipated movements and tend to be very vigilant, particularly and especially when someone’s emotions are under the influence of alcohol. Of course there was no danger and, being as practiced as I am, the feeling dissipated quickly and without incident. I remained standing behind him, waiting perhaps for when he was ready to take the garment off, allowing him his own pace. I watched for nearly a minute as he attempted to shrug out of it himself, reaching for a wall to steady himself, but his arms were clumsy and uncoordinated and I was forced to assist again.

"I’ve got it, I got it—" he said weakly, a light sheen a sweat visible on his forehead as I drew the coat from his shoulders, "Go on, say it," he said as I hung up the coat which was in a somewhat malodorous condition, "I’m not, you know."

I turned back to him, straightening my spine, "Not a what, sir?"

His head rolled back impatiently, biting his lips as he did so, leaving it somewhat redder than it had been before as he sighed in irritation, "An imbecile," he slurred, "A moron, a pillock, I’m not an idiot."

"Such an utterance, sir, I assure you, has never left my lips."

"Oh really?" he retorted, smiling a rueful smile, giving a short bitter laugh, "Well, Jeeves, I hope you’re content on that island, all to yourself, population a grand total of one. Only one person on the whole dashed island where no one thinks Bertie Wooster is a git," his eyes darkened and his brow furrowed as he looked away from me, shaking his head slightly before running a hand across his clammy forehead and turning unsteadily to get to his bedroom.

As required, I followed. He’d dragged a hand over his collar, unfastening it so it stuck out to either side of his neck and was trying to get it all the way off but was for the most part unsuccessful. He’d stopped in the middle of his room, swaying, and when I moved to his side he was taking low, shallow breaths, eyes closed.

Inebriation is not an uncommon occurrence at this flat or in the owner thereof. At best, Mr. Wooster’s drunkenness can manifest itself as simply a higher ratio of laughs than words while engaged in pleasant conversation, and at worst, it’s near poisoning. Like someone’s poisoned him. The culprit, the dismal reality reluctantly admits, is only himself. This time is at the worse end of degrees. It pained me to see my master like this, cast so far from the luminescent center to the far reaches, and somewhere in the depths of my own heart rose a smoldering rage directed at all his so called friends who would allow this destruction of character. How dare they. They may do what they wish to their own wretched lives but leave this man out of it.

"Let me—" I started to say, again reaching my hands to help him, but before I could even say sir he slapped my hands away.

"Let you what? Undress me? I can do it my bloody self!"

"Sir," I nodded respectfully, turning to get his pajamas if in fact he intended to wear them, and set them on the bed.

"Damn it," I heard uttered in a frustrated voice, edged with anger, and looked to see him struggling, "Christ . . . I shouldn’t have drunk so much, I’m such a git," he ripped at his white waistcoat and I watched a button fall to the floor, the action followed by an angry, defeated exhale by Mr. Wooster. I stepped forward and let my fingers calmly undo the buttons, easing it over his shoulders.

"Comfort, sir, if my assurance means anything you’ll no doubt feel better in the morning."

"No I won’t," he said, standing utterly still as I folded the waistcoat, set it down, and reached for the next set of buttons, averting my eyes as I was supposed to.

"I wouldn’t say that," I said to him as quietly as I could, one of my fingertips accidentally brushing against the hot skin of his chest, "Things may appear darker now than they really are, sir, but that is what morning is indeed for."

"Bugger that," he said in a shaking voice, "And bugger morning . . . same problems will still be there, I’ll just be sober enough to care. And with a terrible headache. Retching my guts out" he brought a hand to his head, hindering my efforts, running fingers through his disheveled hair, "God . . . I can’t stand," he swayed to the side.

Hardly thinking I grabbed both his shoulders to steady him and at the same time he brought his hands to my arms, his weight dragging on me suddenly. He lost whatever footing he had and whether it was falling or stumbling or both he had collapsed in an almost clumsy way on my chest, arms moving around me in what would by definition be called an embrace. Suddenly Mr. Wooster’s hair was to the side of my nose, smelling of sweat, shampoo, and cigarette smoke, his scent lingering in my nostrils as in my ear he heaved several deep breaths characteristic of one in tears.

I stood stark still, unsure how to respond, as my master cried silently into my shoulder. His cheek was resting just on my collarbone, his body pressed so close I could feel his heartbeat against mine. Though there were no words, a slight shaking had begun somewhere across his shoulders and moved down his back. His arms tightened around me. Tentatively, because I do most things tentatively, I raised one of my hands to his back, wanting to hold him steady. My fingers curled somewhat into the cloth of his shirt as I rubbed his back gently.

"Mr. Wooster," I said softly, clearing my throat past a sudden choking sensation, words, words that I have always and fervently relied on, knowing them never to fail me, were suddenly gone. I licked my lips, mouth open but nothing came out.

"Jeeves," he said, standing back but not stepping back, his face, startlingly his eyes, now close enough to me that if they were separate seas of endless blue a sudden squall would be needless for want to drown in them would be contentment enough. "I’m sorry," he said, looking right at me, "You don’t deserve this. I’m so sorry," tears had made trails of shining light down his face, one in particular had caught my eye, traveling down his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

He’s never touched me in such a deliberate way. The breaching of physical boundaries upset my equilibrium in such a startling way that I was left completely unprepared how to respond. I’m not meant to be a physical form to him, I’m not a body in need of all that life requires, I have no needs. God forbid I sweat or cry or have goosebumps or be noticed. Does he notice me?

"No apology needed, sir," I was able to say.

A moment passed before he looked up, eyes fluttering slightly, pupils drawing into focus with a deep breath and consequent exhale, "Not needed?"

I didn’t divert my eyes, not even sure he’s fully aware of me or his current situation. They’re still full of tears, but a solemn light had fallen over them and for a moment he almost seemed himself. In an idling, almost unintentionaly slow way Mr. Wooster started to lean towards me. His eyes lowered to look at what I deduced were my lips, and in the next moment, Mr. Wooster’s eyes shut dreamily and he kissed me.

I didn’t move, I didn’t react, I kept perfectly still because I can’t kiss him! I can’t, it would be impossible, utterly and completely impossible! But oh, I hadn’t been kissed in a long, long time, intimacy of any sort a far and away experience that was now driving my heart into a state of pure and terrifying ecstasy. My consciousness, which I normally kept neatly removed and compartmentalized from my body was sent slamming back into the aching blood and flesh where it was intended though so infrequently allowed.

Like now, like when Mr. Wooster’s warm, wet, sweet lips are against mine and everything, absolutely everything was telling me to refuse them. He rose his hands to my face and dragged my head toward him, a soft moan rising from the back of his throat as his lips parted, tongue licking open my lips, the heat of which spread all the way from my cheeks which I knew were red to the pit of my stomach, to my groin. And God, I’m kissing back. My hands lowered and slid onto his body. Stop. Stop. My heart pounded, blood pumping, cock throbbing, hard, so sudden I gasped helplessly. Stop. He tasted so amazing, so so amazing. I suddenly fell backwards, in fact pushing him away, making Mr. Wooster jerked away from me.

He stared in shock at me for how long it took him to take five gasping breaths then his eyes look to the floor and he’s shaking his head, "I say, what happened?"

"Sir," I said, feeling myself almost shudder. What had I done?

"Well . . ." he said, breath suddenly catching in his throat, "I—"

God, he’s going to be sick. I had no time to fetch any kind of bowl or container so as to save the carpet before he suddenly doubled over and threw up all over the carpet. He fell to his knees, still gagging, breath like sobs.

I reacted as calmly as I could, something I’m rather good at most of the time, and reached for a towel beside his bed. Once he seemed sure he’d stopped retching he sat all the way on the carpet, struggling for breath, running a sleeve over his mouth.

Hesitant, I knelt next to him, offering him the towel. When he didn’t take it I cleared my throat, only glancing once at his face, his misery seemed to emanate from him.

And here, sitting on the floor next to my master, is a glaring example of what I do wrong, at least where Mr. Bertie Wooster is concerned. If another valet could see me now he’d take everything from my silver tray to my shoe polish and denounce what small title I have.

Actions, yes, are made pinnacle in our judgments of character but what a different world this would be if thoughts were the betrayer. It’s difficult to lie with one's thoughts though easy to lie through one's actions. My father told me that . . . he said no man can lie to himself forever. He was right. And my poor mother had said I was intelligent. God forbid she sees me now. How disappointed she would be in me.

"Sir," I said to Mr. Wooster, watching in distress at his continuous use of his sleeve for wiping his mouth, "Perhaps a better rest can be achieved in clean clothes and a clean bed,"

His eyes are closed, mouth open as he took careful breathes. He had his forehead resting on the heel of his hand, elbow propped up on a knee, his other leg bent underneath him.

I watched him, waiting for at least a sign of consent, "Sir?" I asked.

He let his hand fall away from his forehead and his eyes opened but he didn’t look at me, a look of disgust passed over his face as he appeared to attempt swallowing away the bad taste in his mouth, his voice now quiet and ragged, "Don’t hate me," he said finally, taking a shuddering breath.

I almost nearly lost any composure I'd managed to regain, pausing before saying, "Impossible, sir," then moved to pull him to his feet.

I cleaned him up as best as I could, enough so he could sleep comfortably, though it would be more accurately called passing out. As soon as I got him in bed and pulled the sheets up he wasn’t conscious.

"Good night, sir," I said at the door. I hoped he wouldn’t remember. I didn’t want him to remember the pain, pain which by choice or design was graciously kept from his waking hours, and I didn’t want him to remember me, as I’d been then, in that of the sweetest and saddest moments that could never happen again. I’m charged with keeping him safe, after all, above all things.


	2. A Conversation

I awoke before my alarm had a chance to announce the hour, my own internal clock accustomed and thus set to wake me at the appropriate time without further aid. The small window above my bed was almost lazily letting in the tawny light of morning which served as only another reminder that the day and its inevitable happenings would soon follow.

I sat up in bed, running a hand through my dark hair, letting it fall in front of my still weary eyes before swinging my legs slowly over the side of my cot. Not a drop of spirits I myself had drunk but I was greeted, upon achieving a more upright position, by a steady, painful pounding between my temples.

Taking a few moments, blinking the sleep from my eyes, my mind clumsily grappled after the remnants of a dream I’d had during the night, though when I’d had time to dream it, having only slept for less than three hours, I haven’t a clue.

It had to do with Mr. Wooster, that much was clear. Clear but in no way comforting.

I sighed impatiently, throwing myself into my morning routine with vigor, getting dressed and preened in the comfortingly automatic way void of any futile daydreams or pondering. Concern, of course, was drawing my haste so I could check on Mr. Wooster and make sure he was alright.

Once dressed I walked solemnly across the flat, grasping the cool handle of his bedroom door, careful to not open it too far to the light, and entered his dark room. My eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, during which time I listening to his breathing that sounded reassuringly steady, a sense of great relief came over me at knowing he had at least survived the night. I quietly set a glass of water next to his bed for him to find if needed and exited with care not to wake him yet.

Once it had almost neared noon, and I’d completed what chores I could, I opened his door again, creeping quietly across the carpeted floor, having done it countless times before, just as I had slowly opened his heavy curtains to let in the already bright daylight countless times as well.

From the bed I heard a moan, its piteous nature in no way unmistakable, followed by the sound of rumpling sheets as he pulled them quickly over his eyes.

"Good morning, sir," I said in my usual calm voice, picking up the tray from the table where I’d left it, "How are we feeling?"

But I received no answer from the seemingly lifeless pile of sheets and covers, in fact there remained no movement or sound for at least ten seconds and even then it was clear this would be a slow process. He emerged from under his covers and was able to drink what I gave him, one of the stronger remedies for this certainly drastic state. Once obtaining an upright position he proceeded to speak.

"What the devil happened last night I can’t ruddy remember," he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hunching his shoulders with a miserable groan. One blue eye opened, though only a fraction of the way, to look up at me and I received its intentional eye-contact only for a moment before diverting my concentration to his breakfast.

"If I might be pardoned to ask, sir, how much of last night’s frivolities are in your recollection?"

"Well . . ." he said as I turned and busied myself drawing his drapes, straightening his bedsheets, adjusting his pillows, waiting for that very prolonged well to come to an end.

"Gosh, only bits and pieces really . . . that blighter Bingo was in a sorry way, some problem or other, and the only solution apparently was to boldly try and out-best any prior record involving how much drunk and how little remembered on the morrow . . . though, dash it, now I can’t even remember what his dilemma was," Mr. Wooster took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly, "Well, well, must have been something worth it all," he directed bloodshot eyes to the ceiling in a pondering way, "Some very odd memories actually, very odd . . . something about . . ." my heart nearly stopped, "A bicycle? Wait a minute . . . yes, there was a bicycle . . . I rather hope no one was hurt, neither of us was in the right condition to operate on our own two legs let alone two wheels . . . actually . . ." he brought a hand to his right leg, giving a faint  _ ouch _ , "I’ve been injured," I raised both my eyebrows in a questioning way, he shrugged one shoulder, "No worries, Jeeves, nothing a Wooster can’t handle."

"I’m glad, sir," I said.

"When did I get in?"

"Around two o’clock in the morning, sir."

"That’s not that bad," he said brightly, then winced, bringing a hand to his head, "I don’t even remember getting into bed . . . did I make it myself?" he looked up at me.

"No, sir," I answered, "It was not in your ability to remain vertical for very long, I was forced to assist in your repose," I chose not to mention his rather ill state, figuring it wasn’t a necessary inclusion, nor was I willing to prod anymore, though I desperately wanted to know if he recalled what had happened. Perhaps he would never remember and everyday would begin and end and accumulate as they always have. But my heart ached looking at him. He looked so lost even now and there was nothing I could do. I know he enjoys this life, for the most part, but his intelligence, intelligence he outwardly dismisses and berates, is extraordinary. In fact he is an extraordinarily bright, creative individual, so much so that when not otherwise engaged he can be filled with a listless emptiness. Loneliness had darkened the corners of his mind, somewhere within the alternating shades of blue in his eyes, and he kept it behind a locked door.

"Well, Jeeves," he said, taking a hesitant bite of food, I imagine he could taste the vomit in his mouth but said nothing, "I think I’ll have a quiet night tonight."

"As you wish, sir," I said, finishing laying out his clothes.

"Jeeves. I—" I heard behind me. I turned.

"Yes, sir?"

"I didn’t, I mean, so to say, um . . ." he licked his lips, a clumsy grin befitting his face, "I feel like I should be saying sorry to you, old chap."

"No, sir," I said, standing near the door.

He watched me then, eyes wide and questioning, mouth slightly open, then he shrugged, face relaxing, "Well all right, uh, I’ll be off then to the Drones I think, as soon as I get dressed."

"Of course, sir," I said, "Will that be all, sir?"

"Quite," he said, returning his eyes to his food.

>>>>>

Not two hours later there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Wooster’s Aunt Agatha.

Aunt Agatha’s hat gave the impression of an unfortunate bird taken to roost, black wings folded across the silvery curls of her head, several of its glossy black feathers sticking straight up in what must have been its dying throws.

The creature curled around her neck gave near the opposite impression, like it would, if given proper motivation, unfurl itself from atop the prestigious woman’s shoulders and frisk away to a better life in the country. Its now lifeless head seemed to stare at me with hollow eyes, resting its weary head upon her breast with the wisdom obtained only after death, its scrupulous gaze boring into me as if possessing knowledge better left unknown.

For a moment, my frantic mind imagined it turning its pointed snout into the unknowing aunt’s ear to reveal the loathsome truth, leaving me to stagger backwards, offering pleads of denial but only receiving reproach and disgust in return. Absurdly, I feared it would seem obvious to her, as if the truth about last night was written somewhere in my face or dress or on the walls or in the air, and it was only a matter of time before she figured it out. She was an extremely shrewd woman after all. And now, confronted with that shrewdness, I felt completely exposed, like she could tell just by looking at me that I’d kissed her nephew last night. Her sometimes hopeless, reckless, haphazard nephew to whom she scolded but with no doubt adored. What she would do if she knew chilled me to the bone.

I was startled from my thoughts almost immediately, taking her coat and hanging it, and the fur, carefully next to the door as she glided into the sitting room. Her often critical gaze seemed to survey the apartment, lips pursed in consideration before finding it acceptable to sit on the couch. I remained standing, as required.

She looked up at me from her seat on the sofa, hands smooth the folds of her dress, "Jeeves, do sit down, I’d like a word."

"With me, madam?"

"Yes," she affirmed somewhat sharply, "With you."

I lingered, feet not moving an inch over the carpet, "Mr. Wooster . . ."

"I didn’t come to talk with Bertie, man, if I had I would have said so."

"Of course, madam," I responded with a nod, moving to sit down across from her, the gesture seeming, despite the invitation, a great intrusion.

"He’s out is he?" she asked and I figured it a rhetorical question, allowing her to continue with a remediate fluttering of her eyelashes, "At the Drones, I supposed?"

"So he said, madam."

"In every manner of the word, in every possible dialect, that man is utterly hopeless. If there were someone needing a visual definition all they’d have to do is point at that silly grin and carefree countenance of his and that would be it," her gloved hands wrung together as discreetly as they could in her lap as I listened quietly, "I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried, but in vain—in addition to any other kind of aid or advice he seems impervious to my counsel as well," she heaved a sigh, catching my eyes briefly, "You, Jeeves, out of all his friends, hooligans the lot of them, seem the most and only intelligent choice to inquire after what goes on in Bertram’s mind, I honestly can’t say, and I at least know I can have an engaged, reasonable conversation with you."

"I’m flattered, madam," I offered, hands folded on top of my knees.

"Don’t be," she waved her hand, "You’re a smart chap and should be proud of it, brains are a precious commodity with youth nowadays."

"Such is often the case, madam," I agreed, realizing suddenly I hadn’t offered her anything to drink, the knowledge deeply unsettling for a panicked moment.

Aunt Agatha’s chin raised and she peered at me over rouge red cheeks, thoughtful for a moment before continuing her speech, "Bertie isn’t seeing anyone at the moment is he?"

"Seeing someone, madam?" I asked, attempting to play dumb.

"A young lady perhaps, one he hasn’t told anyone about?" her sculpted eyebrows rose in question, "If he’s hiding some girl, for whatever reason, you’d tell me wouldn’t you?"

"Why is it you believe him to be concealing a relationship, madam?" I asked.

"I haven’t heard from him in weeks. When last I saw him he seemed as distant as an island," her hand played at the string of pearls at her neck, seeming to calm herself, "I did some thinking and it seemed likely, in his  _ scheming _ mind anyway, that he thought I might disapprove of her, thus hiding her away, explaining, of course, his odd behavior as of late."

The collar of my shirt had started to seem tighter around my throat and I had to, for a moment, gather a steady breath in my lungs before continuing, "To my knowledge there is no young lady to speak of, madam."

"Have you any idea what’s gotten into him lately, then?" she demanded of me in the same abrasive way she did Mr. Wooster. Now on the receiving end I was more aptly able to understand the apprehension he felt toward his aunt.

"While I am unable to speculate on the current mental status of my employer, and by no means am I an expert at inferring such things, I am able to recognize a notable increase in reclusive—" I almost cleared my throat but remained stoic in my account, "—even self-destructive behaviour. On what grounds this behaviour originates, I’m not certain, madam."

Her eyes fell shut for a moment, an aged hand, ornamented with several glints of shining metal, rose to her temple and I was unable to keep from noting the sudden weariness that greyed her features, counteracting her glamorous, calculated appearance and unraveling the stately woman sitting before me into a desperate, all too human soul, worried for her nephew’s welfare.

Aunt Agatha heaved a slow breath, opening her eyes resiliently against her fatigue, "Yes . . . well, I almost wish it were a girl, Jeeves," she lifted her head, blinking away what might have been tears, "Then I could at least have an explanation," she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve in an undistinguishable movement, tabbing at her eyes quickly, "Do you know what happened with that girl Madeline?" she asked me.

"It’s not my place to say, madam," I admitted, feeling I’d overstepped my bounds already.

"Enough with the formalities, Jeeves!" she cried suddenly, hand crushing her handkerchief, shaking in anger, "Tell me what happened! I can’t—" she let out a shuddering breath, "I can’t bear it. I’ve worried, I’ve hoped, I’ve done everything I can, I just need to know why Bertie’s . . ." her words fell apart and I watched in concern, feeling the different tone the conversation had now taken on as well as realizing the depth of concern for her nephew Aunt Agatha had, but to which I hadn’t previously known.

When she didn’t continue, I cleared my throat, "I think, with Madeline, as well as with the other young ladies Mr. Wooster has been in association with, he was averse to the necessary commitments and expectations of such a union."

She gave a bitter laugh, "You’re saying he’s afraid of marriage? All men are until they’ve gone and done it."

"Perhaps Mr. Wooster is simply not ready to brave the confines of marriage just yet, madam."

"How much longer is he willing to wait, then?" she asked fiercely, "He doesn’t seem to care, Jeeves. He sees a woman coming in his direction, a perfectly fine young woman who would make a charming wife, and it's a near certainty that he’ll run in the opposite direction, I don’t understand why he does this, why he doesn’t seem to care."

"It is odd, I agree, madam."

Aunt Agatha took a solemn moment, distant and pensive. I was no help to her, as she had perhaps hoped I would be. But I didn’t know what to tell her. Or what I could. Mr. Wooster had managed to evade several engagements since I’d known him but until now I’d not considered another explanation besides the one I had just given his aunt. I’d considered many factors, from his upbringing, pressure from relatives, to the various aspects of his rather unique personality, and though it would never be my place to intervene, I had often sought to understand Mr. Wooster and his reasons not to marry.

Last night is a new factor to consider.

But I couldn’t tell his aunt this. I couldn’t tell her that it was possible that her nephew had no desire to marry a woman. That the constant, and even increasing, pressure from herself and other family members to marry someone was perhaps more painful to him than she was aware, painful and difficult because he was fighting something he couldn’t control or even reveal to anyone. What if it were true? What if he was attracted to men instead of women? Or was last night only an unfortunate drunken mishap in which I might have appeared to the very intoxicated Mr. Wooster to look like a lovely young woman who he wouldn’t hesitate to kiss. I didn’t know. But the risk, to both of us, was too severe.

"Well," Aunt Agatha said, drawing herself straighter in her seat, "I think I’ll come back later, when he’s here," she stood up, straightening her hat, "Would you tell him for me, Jeeves?"

"Of course, madam," I answered standing as well, placing my hands behind my back.

"And thank you," she offered, though not specifying what. I led her to the door and helped her into her coat. She nodded farewell, eyes still somewhat glassy, and was out the door as quickly as she’d entered.


	3. A Truth

I didn’t hear the door open or close, so when the kitchen door swung open and Mr. Wooster sauntered in I nearly jumped up in alarm. Mr. Wooster held up a hand to keep me seated then sat in the other chair with a pronounced sigh, slouching at length so the back of his head was almost settled on the back of the chair.

"Should you be breathing in all those fumes, Jeeves?" he asked after a moment, referring to the polishing I was engaged in.

I set down the kettle I was working on, fingers somewhat discolored from the polish though otherwise unmarred, "It rather helps to breathe through the mouth, sir," I explained, though I’m sure it didn’t escape him the same amount of fumes was nonetheless consumed, it was only easier on the nostrils.

He made a wordless response, like a grunt I suppose, and folded his hands across his lap, leaning back even more if it was possible. I took a brief moment to observe his physical wellbeing and found him looking better since this morning at the very least, his face had acquired some colour and a brightness had returned in his eyes, signs, I hoped that he was feeling well enough recovered from last night excursions. He was wearing no jacket, though I guessed he had taken it off at the door, it being a rather warm day in London, and his shirt sleeves were folded all the way to his elbows.

"Your Aunt Agatha was here today requesting to speak with you, sir."

"Oh, really?" he responded, rolling his head slightly to the side to look at me. He’d left the flat so quickly this morning he had done nothing with his hair but let it fall where it may, which indeed it had in a very unruly manner across his brow, like it had been stirred by a great wind, waves of brown and almost blonde sticking nearly straight up in some places, giving him an almost adolescent, dare I say delinquent, appearance, "Any idea what about?"

I paused for a second, reapplying some polish to the rag in my hand, "She actually spoke to me at length, though informed me that she would return at a later time, sir."

"Spoke to you?” he responded, blinking rapidly several times in an irritated way, "She has servants of her own if she needs something done."

"I’m afraid it was not a professional service she was seeking, sir," I said, noting the tension in his voice, "She was concerned about you actually, and desired to consult me on the subject. Apparently she considered my perceptions on a certain matter to be a last recourse, sir."

At that Mr. Wooster pushed himself more into a sitting position, the collar of what was now a rather wrinkled shirt open at the collar, tie hanging loose, waistcoat unbuttoned. My eyes instantly dropped back to the table at the sight of him, his collarbone and several inches of his bare chest visible from under the cream-coloured fabric of his shirt, "Certain matter?" he asked, voice cracking slightly, "About me?" he scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Of course she’d talk to you. Shall we get our alibi straight then?"

"Sir?"

"Well if it’s not one thing I’m doing wrong it’s another, I can’t jolly well keep up with it—nor am I too keen at explaining myself,  _ again _ ," he heaved a sigh, "What was this thing she wanted to talk to you about Jeeves?"

I cleared my throat, "About marriage, sir."

"Whose marriage?"

"Yours, sir."

"I’m getting married?!"

"No, sir, rather I misspoke, I mean the prospect of marriage."

"Is there one?"

"That was what she was trying to ascertain, sir."

"Dash it, not this again," he moaned, leaning his head back once more. I saw his throat swallow and his chest rise as he breathed deeply, "Still," he said, "Why’d she want to speak to you about it?"

"She speculated I was perhaps closest to you, as well as the most . . . credible, sir."

"Thinks you’ve got me all figured out, does she?"

"She had hoped I did, sir."

"And you don’t?"

"It would seem not, sir."

"What’s that supposed to mean, it would seem not?

"No answer would have satisfied her curiosity, sir"

"Ah," he paused, thinking, the only sounds coming from my polishing and a taxi making its way down the uneven road outside, "I have to ask you Jeeves," he started, licking his lips, "I can’t remember a great deal about last night, that blasted Bingo and his woes nearly killed me but, I, uh, I have this memory, or at least I think I have, it’s that or it was a dream, which is rather unlikely because I don’t often dream after a night like that but, uh," he gave a small nervous laugh, I’d stopped polishing, my eyes nonetheless only focused on the numerous forks and knives in front of me, "I remember coming back to the flat, god knows how I made it, and you and I were there, in the bedroom, and someway or other I remember well I, I remember I kissed you . . ." his face was screwed up in a puzzled expression, "T-that’s not true, is it?"

"You were indeed very drunk, sir," I said, the pounding of my heart almost painful against my ribs. He waited, watching me. I licked my lips and swallowed past the tightness in my throat, "Which no doubt caused your bizarre dream, sir."

The expression on his face changed, eyes darkening, mouth closing, "True. Of course, quite true, no doubt," he cleared his throat and a entirely less than full hearted smile flashed across his lips before he caught his lower lip in his teeth for a pondering moment, "It felt so real,"

I could think of nothing to say. Denial seemed the only option.

He seemed to laugh a little, his bright smile was arrestingly sweet in the afternoon sun, "A gentleman doesn’t come home from a late party, stumbling drunk, and kiss his valet, that would be truly a sight to be seen," he laughed "One can only imagine. I mean, really, that sort of thing happens so infrequently, so irregularly, sporadically that one can’t help but edge ever closer to the word never, what." his hand was back to his forehead, rubbing at what I guessed was an aching temple, "One chap carrying on with another chap well that’s just—even in a dream, my my."

"Indeed, sir," I said, returning to my polishing.

Expecting him to dash quickly from the kitchen I was astounded, after a moment, to find him still sitting across from me. I cleared my throat, trying my best to sound as un-astounded as possible, "May I help you with something else, sir?"

The spell broke and he sat up quickly, "No, no, I think not, Jeeves," he stood, slapping his thighs and then rubbing his palms together with nervous zest, "Right! I’ll just . . . " he raised one leg toward the parlor, "Play piano I should think," he lowered his leg and was off, surreptitiously.

I waited to hear the first notes of music meander through the kitchen door. When they did I continued polishing, though little was left to be done, and undeniably my gusto for shining silver had dissipated.

To have gotten so close, to have come so near to threatening what has become a very comfortable and contented life, despite, in fact  _ in  _ spite of my past and all its torment, had left an icy hand of dread upon my heart. Any fantasies I had had no longer seemed harmless. Mr. Wooster would move on and so would I. Yes, there was too much to lose.

Then, like opening a letter worn and brittle from reading and re-reading over the long years, I drew forth from my trembling imagination one of my favourite daydreams, knowing perhaps it would be the last time. In the early morning hours, I’m not lying on the small cot in my corner room, instead I’m waking to the sun pouring through the large windows in Mr. Wooster’s bedroom. And the thoughts greeting my waking mind are not harsh nor dark, as they’re loath to be, they are warm and comforting, slow like the petals of a flower unfurling. I’m not alone, Mr. Wooster is there. Our arms and legs are entwined under the clean white sheets. He is safe and warm and in my arms. I’m needed nowhere. I haven’t forgotten anything. There is nothing that I want. That constant ache of wanting of something I can’t have is gone from my tired heart. His breaths are shallow and warm against the hairs on my chest. I feel love. Love as it was intended to be felt.

Suddenly the kitchen door swung wide open, I hadn’t heard the music stop, and Mr. Wooster stood with hands on hips, "Now Jeeves, I know for certain that what happened last night was entirely  _ not _ a dream, I demand you tell me the truth, right this very instant."

I cleared my throat and pushed the silver out of the way, scrambling to focus after being ripped so harshly from my thoughts, "You arrived home from your evening, inebriated, I assisted you to bed and, as you so rightly speculated, you had a bizarre dream. That is all."

“Then where does this odd memory come from?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“If it didn’t happen, alright then, but if it did I’d like the chance to explain myself.”

“There is no need, sir.”

"Must you always treat me as a child, Jeeves?" he squared his shoulders and deepened his voice, in an obvious imitation of me, "Don’t breathe sir, drink this sir, your memory is a sorry soppy mess that can’t be trusted,  _ sir _ ," he scoffed, "What you must think of me I shudder to think."

"It grieves me to hear you say such a thing, sir, you couldn’t be further from the truth."

"Go on, placate me, your little clever canary that’s learned to say what ho and good morning, gazing in a little mirror all day while you sprinkle seeds about and clean up all my messes."

"I would never lie to you, sir."

"Oh really?" he stepped closer to me, "I thought I knew you, quite well actually, we’ve been living together all this time, I depend on you for bally well everything, but for the first time I don’t believe you, Jeeves."

"I don’t have a choice, sir. If you do know me and trust me you should trust that my actions are not frivolous nor haphazardous, there is a reason for them and all contingencies have been thoroughly examined. The course I take is for both our benefit," my voice had risen and my hands were curled into fists on the table.

"How could you possibly know what?"

I stood suddenly, choosing retreat, "I beg your pardon, sir, I have laundry."

He stopped me, hands to my chest, gripping the lapels of my jacket with a ferocity I rarely saw in him, "No you don’t! Why are you acting this way?"

His bright blue eyes, wide and pleading, met mine. Like the insistence of eroding salty waves crashing against a boat’s tether, they threatened to snap the line, sending me lost at sea. A question swelled in his eyes like a wave, that same sea where his loneliness spread from horizon to horizon, making mockery of all his carefree antics and blithe attitudes.

"You did kiss me," I said, unsteadily meeting his eyes.

His piercing eyes wavered. Perhaps he’d thought he’d feel relief knowing the truth. Instead he looked near in shock, pupils dilated, fear quickening his breaths, “I did,” he blinked several times, “Well,” his hands dropped from my chest, “I’m sorry, Jeeves.”

“It’s alright, sir,” I said, dropping my gaze.

“God!” he cursed, “Can you stop with the  _ sirs _ , just for a moment--I’ve got to think.”

I’d clenched my jaw together, ears ringing, feeling trapped and insecure, regardless I attempted to say something, anything, needing to reassure him, somehow, “No harm was done, but,” I looked into his eyes with great effort, how dark they must appear to him, how unworthy I was when facing the very invention of blue, “It can’t happen again.”

“Of course not,” he agreed and seeing my coat lapels wrinkled where he’d clutched them he smoothed them out with his hands. The contact made me nearly shudder, how close he was, how he smelled like the sun and though I remembered, and had forbade, the feel of his lips and body against mine I only wanted to feel it again. It occured to me I was being utterly foolish, indeed reckless even thinking it.

Then after a moment, perhaps he sensed my unease, the tension in his body washed away until all that remained was us in this dim corner of the kitchen. He said softly and with tenderness, “I am very fond of you,” I realized his hands hadn’t left my chest. Could he feel how hard my heart was beating? The moment passed as if accompanied by a great swell of music and something inside me, responding perhaps to the quiet realness of his composure and his need for truth in this one remaining moment made me raise my own shaking hands to his and hold them to my chest.

“And I of you,” I curled my fingers around his, wishing beyond all hope that he would understand the significance, the candor, the vulnerability of the words.

I believe he smiled slightly, “I’m not sure I knew that,” he said, and when I frowned in disbelief he shook his head, “Rather a chap needs to hear it every now and again,” his thumb stroked my hand softly, “I’ve been . . . lost of late. I try to fit in, impress, for whatever reason, all the Drones and so forth, try and . . . be happy, in all that word has to offer, but always end up just short of the destination really,” his eyes lowered briefly, “Makes me worry I'm missing something,” his eyes shone and his voice was almost a whisper, “And the days keep passing by, and the years, and I’m not getting any closer. I’m . . . alone,” the sadness of his words shattered in my heart, “Do you know what that feels like?”

“Yes,” I said, squeezing his hands. Overcome with emotion I lowered my eyes, trying to hide the emotion fighting its way to the surface, cracking my so well calculated semblance of equanimity. He let go of one of my hands and I felt one of them come to rest on my cheek.

“Maybe we’re not,” he said and lifting my chin he brought my lips to his. Long fingers I’d seen dance over the piano countless times in the past stroked my skin, the warm breath from his nostrils was on my face as he leaned into me. The tenderness of this gesture, so different from the night before which had been so full of pain and darkness, caused something to give way inside of me, perhaps the truth spoken and shared emboldened my here before unavowed heart. 

I kissed him back. 

All I could imagine was in that moment. The softness of his lips, the hunger of our quickened breathes and the unrestrained frantic urge to taste and feel all of each other. I felt him shudder with pure exhilaration as one of my hands ran through the array of soft curls and pulled him into my heaving chest. And maybe he was right, maybe he could be right, maybe we weren’t alone. My eyes rolled closed as his tongue played along the inside of my upper lip and I met his eager tongue with my own, marveling at the proficiency of his kiss.

We broke away as he pulled back with two slow, wet kisses to my lips, breathless, forehead leaning against mine. His eyes are closed. My lips burned with stubble from his unshaven face. We shared a few frantic breaths in an undeniable answer to the unspoken question. No words were necessary. We both knew what this meant, what this was. 

To the drumming of my own heart I felt his hands at the button of my tight collar. When it opened his warm mouth found the soft skin there. My shoulders met the wall behind me and I was startled but more so by the feel of his hips pressing into mine, arching in a way to elicit a groan of pleasure as my head fell back. I know he must feel the hardness of my cock as our hips moved in unison because I can most certainly feel his. My hands ran from his hair to his back to his hips, drawing his thin form to my taller body, burying my face in his neck, kissing an ear and the threading at his throat. 

I can barely handle the chorus of sensation rising through every nerve of my body when I feel his hands slide slowly downward, delicate fingers stroking the front of my trousers. My breath hitched sharply in my throat and my legs pronounced their utter weakness. Mr. Wooster’s eyes opened and locked with mine even as his hand stopped over my cock which twitched and jerked outside my control, bound behind my many layers. He kissed me again and we writhed and rocked against the wall, one of his legs slid in-between mine. Lord, don’t stop.

"Jeeves," he breathed, gasped, “Please,” moaned in my ear, as his hips rocked into mine with more persistence, his own hardened cock pressed hot and damp into my hip. His breaths are quickening, harder and faster and I dared to slide my hands to his ass, god, pulling him even tighter to me, closer, all I wanted was closer. 

Our mouths met again, all wet breaths and gasps. One hand, one courageous hand, aching to feel him, hold him, grasped the pressure that had been building, moved to undo the button of his trousers, lowering the zip, slipping my hand between us to touch the straining cock of Mr Wooster, my Mr. Wooster. And the sound! Oh the sound he made, the begging, pleading from his lips, gasping into my mouth in need of release.

And that’s when the doorbell rang.


	4. A Proposal

Doorbells are surprising and intrusive things. Once a doorbell has been rung there really exists no distance at all between yourself and the prospective caller, none but a door and the time it will take to open it whilst offering a greeting, an invitation, taking part in the grand scheme of fingers poised over buttons and watches set to arrive at the worst possible time imaginable. So imagine my shock, my terror, at realizing that just outside the door, not ten feet from where Mr. Wooster and I were locked together mid and indeed near glorious gratification, was someone with whom observation on the most elementary level would allow them the insight needed to ascertain that there was something, or there had been, something unimaginable going on behind the door.

My reaction was to freeze, eyes darting toward the door hoping to meld into the woodwork, melt into the background, fade into a shadow, lapsing back into the lessons I learned as a child, cringing in expectation of the inevitable punishment.

Mr. Wooster’s reaction was to let out a loud sound like a frightened young dog, jumping clear into the air, hand clamping over his own mouth, eyes wide enough for ships to pass through.

"Bertie?" came the voice from behind the door, shrill and angry at being heard but not seen, declaring next with a rap of knuckles on the wooden door, "I know that yelp—open this door immediately or I’ll disown you!"

"Dear lord, what do we do?!" Mr. Wooster uttered in a panicked whisper. His hand went to the front of his trousers, hiding, wiping vigorously at the wet stain his precum had caused on the pale beige material. If the situation wasn’t so dire the image would have excited me.

Must think quickly. My intelligence is a joke, an utter laugh if I can’t think clearly in times of great need. Must think. Must think. Stop looking at him. God his lips are all swollen. I can still taste him on my lips. The way his cheeks are flushed, breath still labored and heavy, chest visible through his open shirt, oh how I’d like to stroke it—

"Jeeves! She’s breaking down the door!"

I snapped out of it, somehow finding a foothold on this hazardous and ridiculous slope we’d found ourselves upon and took hold of Mr. Wooster’s arm, guiding him hastily into his room, "Sir, put your robe on, turn out your bed—now would be a good time to brush up on any skills you know involving the feigning of illness,"

"Right, right" Mr. Wooster said shakily, quickly, nodding at me, eyes still hopelessly frightened as I closed the door on him, turning directly to the outside door, straightening my hair and my jacket and my collar and everything imaginable and wearable. Checking my own rudely interrupted erection, which had gratefully disappeared rather quickly, I was happy, so to speak, to find the thickness of my own trousers had left no evidence of arousal. 

I grasped in ungraceful hands the reins of my panic and pulled back with all my strength on the steeds of my misfortune, grasping the doorknob with my hand that, as of not a minute ago, had been between my employer’s legs and flung the door open.

"Bertie, I’m—oh!" Aunt Agatha’s small gloved hand stopped mid-knock and her scowl persisted all the way through to a full out glare, "Making me wait like that—I know he’s in there now, Jeeves, I heard the blighter a moment ago."

"My apologies, madam, he is indeed here, however he’s not entirely—"

"Aunt Agatha, old tree!" was suddenly exclaimed behind me and Mr. Wooster came bursting forth from his bedroom, wrapped in his rose colored robe, a handkerchief clutched in one hand, "What-ho and all that, lovely to see you."

"Bertram," she said simply and shortly as if his very name were an inexcusable dissatisfaction, letting me take her coat and usher her inside the doorway with not so much as a glance at me, or my appearance, allowing me an overwhelming sense of gratitude, for once, at being so easily disregarded so long as I could dispense with whatever outerwear was necessary, "Didn’t your man tell you I was coming to visit—you could at least have dressed you lazy, foul creature."

"I was going to," Mr. Wooster responded, blue eyes darting to me, covertly using her averted eye-contact as an opportunity to assess my outward appearance, to which I did the same to him, both of us giving the slightest of confirming nods at each other. The briefest of eye contact had sent a surge of electricity through my body, as if we were still tethered together, causing me to turn away as he continued his hasty explanation, "Or rather did, then un-did—seeing as I’m under the weather, weather’s over me, and so forth—I thought it best to take it easy."

"Take it easy?" she retorted hotly, moving into the sitting room, not looking at him but perhaps at the ceiling her chin was up so high, "From what? You never do any work! You don’t so much as lift a radish for yourself and even then I fear the strain would be too much for you," she sneered once at him; he looked wounded, "You’d be a useless heap on the ground and I’d have to live to the end of my days known as the aunt of the poor fool who was outdone by a radish—would you really do that to your poor aunt, Bertie? Heaven help me."

"What radish?" he asked in panic.

"You dull wit," she sighed, settling on the couch, "Sit down before you faint," her grey eyes narrowed scrupulously and she took a moment to look over her nephew, casting her merciless eye from hair-tip to toe-tip, then shook her head, "You do look a bit flushed—are you quite all right?" she turned to look at me and I just avoided jumping in alarm, "Maybe if he wasn’t out to all hours, maybe if he settled down he’d—Jeeves, you’re not looking too well either."

Mr. Wooster was watching every movement of his aunt, eyes fixed and glazed, mouth hanging open, brow furrowed, and as silence suddenly made itself obvious, his mouth quipped into a silly hopeless grin, and he asked in a squeaking voice like he hadn’t heard a word or syllable of his aunt's aggressive speech since she walked in, "Tea?"

"Jeeves’ what’s the matter with him?" his aunt demanded of me, "He looks addled, did he hit his head or something?"

"Not to my knowledge, madam—"

"Never mind—his wellness at the moment is besides the point—it’s the wellness of his future I’m here to talk to him about," she dismissed, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve.

"Oh I suspect I’ll be feeling loads better by the morrow," he replied with a nod, face near drained of all colour at this point.

"For God’s sake Bertie, the world exists beyond the next day—have you no concept of a  _ year  _ from now?  _ Ten  _ years from now?" Aunt Agatha exclaimed, and as if remembering her dignity gave a dignified sigh and dabbed at a temple with the small bit of lace cloth, expression calmer, yes, but just as resolute.

At this, though privy to his aunt’s scrutiny in the past, Mr. Wooster appeared dejected and discouraged, his aunt’s words acting as almost a slap to his face, leaving him dazed for a moment, resigned in thought. His hands were clasped together, eyes level with the coffee table as if he jagged words of his Aunt that had hit a note and frequency I didn’t think she knew was there, eventually he replied solemnly, "Of course I do."

"And where, exactly, do you see yourself?” Aunt Agatha asked with an impatient chuckle, attempting though it seemed a half-hearted attempt at first, to adopt a more reasonable tone, perhaps to spare her nephew's feelings if she were indeed capable of the empathy necessary to detect his discomfort. 

Though tea may help. Tea helps. I excused myself to the kitchen hastily to get some tea for them both.

My legs were still so shaky I didn’t even know if I could make it the short distance. I felt like I’d been unraveled from head to toe. One of my hands found the edge of the counter in the kitchen so I could finally catch my breath. I didn’t fancy leaving him to her. But these are my duties. What would she think, what would anyone think, if I were to sit at his side, clasp a caring hand in his shaking palm, kissing his knuckles reassuringly to let him know I was there, supportive in a way that crossed the line if not the gulf that this society was more than aware existed between master and servant. It’s preposterous.

My hands shook as they scooped out the tea, skin still tingling in places he’d kissed, the area behind my right ear haunted by the ghost of his lips and tongue, the sweet and intoxicating smell of his sweat. Had he left bruises? My hand reached up to my neck, now covered in my collar. I would check later. I found myself suddenly, irrationally wanting bruises, wanting to make it more real than it was at the moment, a moment which seemed as fantastical, as distant, as unimaginable as a Time Machine or Verne’s great journey to the center of the earth, like a novel I’d read long ago, a short story, a fable of which I wasn’t even the main character.

However the sensations remained, no matter how far off a thing it all seemed now, the sensations rang so true and so loudly and so adamantly as if I was reliving them at this very moment, doing the most mundane thing, making tea, so completely contrary to what had just happened. Where does tea stand, how could it possibly compare to sharing his very breath with my own, his heaving chest against my own, his moans in my ear as I stroked him? Oh, this was terrible. Simply awful. The kettle was on though. Should I stay and watch it? Stay and hope that by the time I make it back out there she’d be gone? And we’d be able to continue where we’d left off? Visions of bare skin and sweat and years upon years of repression flying out the window into clean fresh air—no, no, I could hear them. I could blasted hear them.

"I recognize that it’s difficult, Bertie, believe me, my sympathy for today’s youth hasn’t wholly run dry, no, I realize the dilemma and that’s why I’ve done this," Aunt Agatha was saying.

"Done what?" Bertie asked.

"I’ve found you the perfect girl."

"What?" Mr. Wooster gasped, then politely corrected himself, "Aunt Agatha, the gesture is indeed appreciated, but really—I’m quite capable of—"

"Oh tish tosh, you aren’t capable, that’s why I’ve been forced into action."

"Well, I know I may be a little behind on all the matrimonial sentiments but surely that doesn’t mean—"

"It does mean exactly that—and don’t talk back to me while I’m trying to save you from yourself—you’ll be going to the country immediately where you will meet the girl. She is the daughter of a very dear friend, of good breeding, and I expect you to be on your best behaviour Bertie."

The water was just starting to boil, the sound ringing deaf in my ears as I listened to their conversation.

"I say, don’t you think I could have a bit of a warning, some time to think this—"

"There is no more time! Stop asking for time!" she nearly shouted, casting Mr. Wooster again into shocked silence. And though I was in the kitchen, reaching for a towel to lift the kettle from the stove, I could sense the change of atmosphere, like the air before a storm, like the first cold day of autumn where one can almost smell the coming snow.

"Please Bertie," I could barely hear her say gently, "I’ve wound the clock back for you but it will still strike twelve, every move of the second-hand brings it ever closer, you must be aware of it—your life on a clock-face . . . your  _ life _ , Bertie . . . living means loving. You’re my nephew, I want you to be happy . . . I’m . . . old, I have no more time left—you’re . . . you’re not meant to be alone Bertie, I intend to fix this, fix you—I’ll be expecting you at her estate."

When the tea was ready I brought it out on the usual silver tray and saw Mr. Wooster was alone, his aunt’s exit had been quick and silent. I set the tray down and stood next to him though he was staring at the floor.

"Sir?" I asked.

"You heard all that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well . . ." he said, looking up and I felt the briefest contact from his eyes then he lowered them again, a small sigh rising in his chest, "One of us is still free."

"I’ll begin packing, sir," I said as he sat back in his chair. Perhaps the tea would make him feel better. Perhaps I could—but no, I have to pack for the journey. But was this journey marking an end of something or the beginning?


	5. An Offer

Suffice to say matters did not recommence between Mr. Wooster and myself as soon as his ardent, though still thoroughly distressed relative, left. I packed his things for the upcoming journey and apart from reiterating his desired "quiet night" we spoke not another word about what had happened between us and left the following morning with the tawny light of dawn at our backs.

Her estate was built in a way that was meant to give the illusion of naturalism, nestled, or forcibly interjected more like, within the confines of what had been a charmingly secluded meadow. Now a scattering of peacefully blowing trees on its outer edges halfheartedly giving the excuse that it’s nothing more than a summer cottage. It was not a convincing ruse, to anyone I should think, elaborate sculpted stone was not stacked and placed here as part of some ecological process. No, indeed, the gaudy structure blocked out the sun and cast a very large imposing shadow, cheating the charming meadow of its rightful rays of light and leaving only dirt and gravel in it’s all encompassing shadow that with the rotation of the planet swept over the entire grounds.

As we drove up to the front door the sun was actually on us, and though it wasn’t the hottest of days the gravel had heated under the sun’s rays and seemed to add to the trepidation with its rising heat. The car came to a stop, the motor was cut, and our two weary eyes were cast upward to the tip-most top of the building. The quality of silence, in stark contrast to the bustling streets and high population of London was fine indeed but it wasn’t without a degree of caution that I opened the door of the car and stepped out, disturbing this silence with the scrape of my shoes on the gravel and the shutting of the door behind me, immediately casting my long shadow over the ground.

"Jeeves," Mr. Wooster said, removing himself from the car as well, "I’m forced to assume a dismal mentality about all of this—I’m afraid the whole thing leaves a chap feeling utterly helpless against this thing called chance."

"Chance, sir?"

"Chance that I wouldn’t be halfway around the world or in hospital or kidnapped by bandits when the time came for Aunt Agatha’s patience to finally run out."

"It was never my impression, sir, that patience was one of her key attributes."

"It bally well isn’t, Jeeves—I was just hoping beyond hope that she’d never reach the end of that blasted rope," he heaved a sigh then glanced over at me, blue eyes squinting against the bright morning sun, "I don’t suppose you’ve thought of any way out of this, have you?"

"I’m afraid not, sir," I answered, eyes lowering, my fingers curling on the inside of my sleeves.

"And . . . and this other thing—" he said carefully, "Would be nice to have a moh--together," When I didn’t reply right away, opening my mouth but not immediately finding a response he continued, almost hesitantly, "You led with the duty-first suit, Jeeves, I’ll keep up with that," he thumbed the pockets of his waistcoat, rocking back on his heels slightly, looking away over the grounds, "Maybe it’s too much to ask, suddenly everything seems caught up in some great undertow. I’m trying to be smart about this, trying to use the ol’bean.”

“We do seem at the mercy of external forces, sir.”

“What a place to be,” he grumbled, looking to the giant structure then back to me, “Would you call me Bertie, or at least Bertram,” he smiled though it appeared to take great effort, “At least when we are alone, Jeeves?” he took a half step closer so the light wind blew his scent to my nostrils, “Seems only fitting after I left that bite mark on your neck and you had a right feel around my forward business.”

He seemed amused when a blush spread across by checks, “I was going to mention that,” I said, the corner of my mouth turning up to the slightest of smiles, “Though it will be an adjustment,”

“One of many we may have to make, in future,” he said with a deep inhale. I didn’t know if he meant with the prospect of his marriage or in what was happening between us. He reached and took my hand which was at my side for the briefest of moments, squeezing tightly, perhaps reassuring himself as much as me, “It’s the smart thing to do, the only thing to do, for now, old chap. And maybe the only smart way to do this is . . ." his eyes flickered over to mine as his hand dropped way, "Is . . . to meet the girl."

His words, like they were accompanied by a cloudy day that promised only rain and gloominess, were a painful reminder of what a stolen moment the night before had been, a sadness only amplified by how hard he was trying not to show it. He wanted to be the smart one now. Out of all the myriad of times I so ardently fought to intellectually rise over everyone else because I had to, because he had asked me to—they were suddenly caught topspin, roles reversed—I would have done anything to be able to not use my brains just this once, to act with my heart instead.

Without further delay we walked together to the door.

>>>>>

The girl, and her name turned out to be Aurelia Moniz, was first glimpsed from within the parlor room holding a cup of tea across from Mr. Wooster’s aunt and a large painting of a Victorian gentleman. When our presence was announced the relative and the painting remained sitting, Aunt Agatha’s expression as tight as a Swiss watch at half past six in the morning, while the girl stood in preparation for introductions.

My first impression, standing behind and somewhat to the right of my master, though if chivalry were more in practice I would have aimed to be in more of a frontal position so as to protect him, was that the smile spreading across her pleasant face, appearing both natural and practiced to perfection at the same time, was both a wonderful and terrible thing. She stood across from her painted gentleman and rather than appearing as if she’d just stepped out of the glamorous, finely painted picture, she made it seem like the space around her was as near perfect as a painting, the golden curls of her hair like the gold leaf of the medals adorning the figure’s chest, her rosy cheeks the most perfect shade of pink. And though I knew her to be of Portuguese descent she was fair haired and blue eyed. Her skin had a warm, richer tone however, all of which only added to her mystique.

"Bertie, dear boy," Aunt Agatha said in an almost nauseatingly sweet voice, "You’ve arrived—I’d like you to meet Aurelia Moniz.”

Mr. Wooster took the required amount of steps to carry him within arms length of the girl, holding out his hand, "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you. And you?" she returned, taking his hand lightly in hers. Though it was hard to see from my vantage point, I believe she was looking him in the eye and there was little of any meekness to the gaze. Mr. Wooster smiled awkwardly, dropping his hand and his eyes. He glanced over at the painting, "Charming fellow—painter are you?"

"Not me," she admitted humbly, "My father—he’s extraordinary. He painted this almost twenty years ago. A self-portrait.I brought it as a gift for your aunt."

"Nice of you. And him," Mr. Wooster said, "Dashed impressive talent too, nothing but respect for chaps of the Monet-what’s-it persuasion, born with it," he shrugged, smacking his lips together and taking a deep breath, "Comes naturally, suppose—not to me, oh no, I’ve never painted so much as a teacup—hopeless with a paintbrush."

"Bertie is wonderful on the piano!" Aunt Agatha quickly interrupted, standing up, "Very musical."

Miss. Moniz’s dark blue eyes shifted over to Mr. Wooster’s Aunt, then back to him, and it was my impression that perhaps for the last half hour prior to our arrival she had had to endure a copious amount of hand-wringing on the elder’s part, nervousness of the initial introduction coupled with the shaky, if at all, faith she had in her nephews ability to make a good impression.

"Well perhaps we could take a walk in the gardens and get to know each other better," she said, placing her arms behind her back and fluttering her eyelashes in a perfectly ordinary, innocent way.

"Oh yes, quite, that would do rather nicely, sort of a long drive up here, our legs could do with a bit of un-cramping," Mr. Wooster answered, smiling.

"Our?"

Mr. Wooster frowned, "Well yes, the two of us," he gestured once at himself then at me, inhaling sharply, "Well, I should say, Jeeves and I—”

"Surely your valet won’t be joining us," she said lightly, a note of disbelief evident in her voice. Her large blue eyes regarded Mr. Wooster from a cocked head, inducing a bout of indistinguishable mumbling that might have consisted of several wells, uhs, and what's before he darted his eyes from the question and said, "No, I suppose not, uh—shall we go?"

"Delighted," she smiled, taking his arm.

In the briefest of moments, in the time it took to rearrange his direction toward the door, Mr. Wooster’s frightened eyes sought mine, if only for a moment, whereafter they proceeded toward the exit. And for one second, as I stared in quiet agony after him and his soon-to-be fiancé, the girls eyes flickered toward mine from over Mr. Wooster’s shoulder, making a brief but chilling contact, an intelligence and strange, indescribable knowing marked somewhere in their dark blue depths, and then they were gone.

I think I should make clear to the reader that one of the things that higher society does not do on a very consistent basis, is make eye contact with servants or staff. In fact, we are meant to not even be seen, let alone acknowledged in such a way. I was shocked. It felt like someone had slapped me, so much was the distressed quality of that gaze, one that shouldn’t have been there to begin with, and for a few seconds I felt frozen by it.

But once Mr. Wooster and the young lady had taken their leave I was left to resume my own duties. And glad to as well. I wouldn’t get a chance to walk through the gardens with them, not that I’d want to unless it was to gather more of an understanding of who she was. I would have to gather my information elsewhere. All that for later though, I suppose. I have to go put the car away and get Mr. Wooster settled in. I quietly made my way outside to do just that.

Though it is hardly my place to say, it appeared that the morning was offering the afternoon a tentative, if not reluctant farewell to the horizon, checking its watch once more before allowing the harsher, noon-day light residence in the strikingly blue sky. The car skidded slightly upon the loose gravel as I turned into the garage, the frame of the automobile shuttering momentarily before I shut the engine off for good, the action giving me an unshakable feeling of finality upon getting out and shutting the door. I moved around back to extract the bags and upon turning on my heel was suddenly halted by the unexpected form of a large dark man standing not three feet from me. Since I hadn’t heard so much as the rustle of an unbuttoned jacket in the wind or loose pebble kicked across the ground I was startled near to the point of dropping all three bags I was carrying.

"I beg pardon," I said somewhat breathlessly, stepping backwards once not only for space but also to gather a better and more extensive observation of the fellow. He was large, as I said, a word I will use twice simply because it is his one, if not only, most prominent characteristic. He wore the clothes attributable to some sort of stable-hand, the addition of dirt and hay adding validation to this presumption, but otherwise his features were startling ordinary and I imagine if one were asked to recall him to a policeman there would be no distinguishable features in which to draw a description, other than large.

"Are you Mr. Wooster’s man?" he asked and I noticed a faint accent, and in knowing Mr. Wooster’s future wife’s nationality I was able to deduce it was an inflection of Portuguese origin.

"Yes, I am," I answered, standing up straighter and though I am on the rather tall side myself, managing only to be almost his height, "And can I assume that you are under the employment of the Moniz family?"

"Yes," he said simply and I was forced to suppress an urge to fidget uncomfortably as his eyes looked me over from head to foot. If he was impressed or disappointed there was no way to tell, like the ambiguous Greek faces upon a million sculptures of their time he offered no expression from which I could draw any conclusions.

It was with hesitancy that I drew my brows together in a slight frown and asked, "Is there something you’d like to discuss with me?"

"Is your master familiar with horses?" he asked.

I shifted the bags in my arms, licking my lips, "No, I don’t believe he’s so much as ridden a horse," I answered, "Miss Moniz has how many animals does she?"

"My lady has four, and I shouldn’t doubt that she’d like to take them out during your stay."

"That shouldn’t be a problem," I said, his dominating presence and fierce eyes starting to wear on what had already been a nervous resolve, "Mr. Wooster can be very adaptive when needed to be."

"He’ll have time to get used to the beasts," the man nodded, "He’ll have to—my lady is a very demanding woman."

"Is she?" I ventured, attempting to ascertain if I couldn’t extract some inside information on the woman.

"Almost impossible to get everything done," he said and maybe for the first time I noticed a change of tone in his voice, this time adopting an almost desperate tone, "But can’t do otherwise, you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," I admitted and there was a small pause as I endeavored to steady my heart rate and ignore the sweat I could feel coming to my upper lip.

The fellow nodded and then his eyes shifted to either side of him, over his shoulder, and he leaned in even closer and I hadn’t thought it possible he could seem more menacing, "That’s why she gives us a little help, you see."

"Help?"

He reached into his coat pocket and extracted something wrapped in crinkled foil, "I don’t know what we’d do without this—it’s the only way we get things done, which means the only way we avoid her," he said, holding his large hand out and revealing that inside the foil was a piece of chocolate which he broke in half, holding it out to me, "You should eat some, do you a world of good."

I lowered the bags to the ground and let my eyes drop for a moment to the piece of chocolate, then back up to his face, "Your employer gives you chocolate to help you work?" I asked questioningly, frowning.

"Take it," he said, forcing it into my hand, "I promise you won’t regret it—she’s a powerful woman, believe me," he said, watching me intently, waiting for me to obey.

"I really don’t think—"

"You’d do well to just eat it, friend," he said and I nearly shuddered at the way he said friend.

And simply because it seemed the only way to assure his letting me go and because I was feeling increasingly ill at ease I lifted the piece of chocolate to my mouth and took a bite though I can’t say it tasted sweet at all. It had the ashy, unappealing taste of something eaten while upset and I swallowed it without even attempting to enjoy it.

I lifted the bags again and tried working my tongue around my mouth, ridding it of the taste as discreetly as possible, "Thank you," I said, "But, I really have to get back to work. I’ll no doubt be working with you and her lady’s other staff quite a lot in the near future."

"That’s right," he said, finally taking a step back, "Once the wedding’s done it’ll be like you’re working for her, really."

"Almost," I said and nodded once more, turning to go.

Hefting the bags more comfortably in my arms I set out across the yard to the side door, stopping only once to look over my shoulder and saw that the man had disappeared and was nowhere in sight. I stored the details of the exchange in my mind for the time being, planning to ruminate on it later, but not now. I had work now.

Work had a way of quieting my mind. Or at least it usually did. In all honesty, my mind was occupied with several areas, areas vastly different than Miss Moniz’s rather odd employees or why she might be feeding them chocolate on a regular basis or if Mr. Wooster will or will not be able to stay in the saddle if forced to engage in some kind of horse related activity over the course of our stay.

It was as I was working that I attempted to sort out, to the best of my abilities, what I was going to do about the whole situation. It was a difficult situation, I must say, and it is with a gathering sense of dread that I admit it is one to which the answer was not initially obvious, especially when all I had been successful at doing up to this point was panicking. I usually try to avoid panic, fear, whenever I can. I don’t claim to be master of all my fears, I do have them, but it is possible to out think fear. When I was young it became clear that fear robs one of reason, intelligence, it makes us no better than animals.

In an automatic, habitual way I set to work, unpacking clothes, hanging them up and so forth, and it seemed important, at least during the preliminary stages of analysis to ascertain what my feelings for Mr. Wooster, exactly are.

However, upon barely a second thought, half a thought later, it seemed obvious that such a revelation, indeed it would be a revelation, was impossible to the point that it might as well not even be a factor; it’s a given, I couldn’t change my feeling for him anymore than I could change how many stars were in Orion’s belt.

I care about him. There, I said it. Well, thought it. But I did think it, it’s a step, a step in the right direction, or rather in the wrong direction, but at least it was an action, at least I wasn’t running around the same circle of thoughts over and over. No, I’d thought it. I care about him. I love him. God, I love him. I don’t want to just be his valet. I want to spend mornings in bed with him, I want to rouse him not by pulling curtains or saying good morning, but instead by reaching my hand under the covers and stroking him into wakefulness, I want to kiss him behind his ear, I want to nibble across his collar bone, I want to—I can’t think those kind of things though. I can’t. Can not. Terrible I even let myself get that far.

Alright, alright, I thought to myself, get a hold of yourself. My mind, though usually agile by nature, was moving a mile a moment.

But god, I love him—I do. Doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself not to think it, I’ll just think it ten times more until it wears itself into the lining of my brain and its impossible not to think it. He’s just so perfect and lovely and no one else sees it! Oh, the things I could do for Mr. Wooster, the things I would do for him, I would love him, I would make him moan and squirm and beg for service only I could provide.

Mr. Wooster. He’d asked me to call him by his first name, no sirs, or otherwise. Suddenly it seemed odd, in the middle of my thought process, it seemed something of a problem when not even in my mind could I call Mr. Wooster by his first name. In fact, if given the opportunity, not in this reality certainly, that we were together, parallel, skin on skin, breath and breath, perfectly perfect, and I was giving him all he wanted and deserved, truly deserved, and there was heat and warmth and sweat and cum and everything our mammalian bodies had to offer, that when I let words mix their way in with my gasps I would be saying Mr. Wooster instead of, of . . . Bertie. I imagined it sounding out, cried out in ecstasy, Bertie, yes, yes, Bertie, Bertie.

But really, none of that is very likely though, is it? Is it? Could it be? Many things are unlikely and only a handful of things are positively likely. Things like what that man Newton found out, with apples falling, knowing they will always fall, knowing, and really knowing that this is it, this is the truth. Why do people bother with the unlikely? People claim that the universe is full of endless possibilities but it’s not, it’s really only the likely. In fact everything is so simple it’s humanity’s greatest flaw to try and apply some sort of mystical otherworldly quality to it all—it’s utter madness, utter, complete and wholly without a pause of any kind to gather one’s breath or switch on a light before entering a room or waiting for the listener to take a sip of tea before continuing—madness! We know, we have known, ever since Newton told us—this is it, this is simple—but we can’t accept it! Why can’t we have listened to the fellow!? He was telling us something we can know, something real, and we only just listened, we agreed to the point of safe agreement, but we wouldn't believe it!

Because even more than our desire to complicate everything is our desire to write huge books and scribbled chalk on boards and gather together in circles that nod and say things like ‘ah, yes, I see’ even if we don’t see. We just want to be part of something, of humanity. Just like the apple, we at least know we’re all human.

I’m human, you're human, and so is Mr. Wooster. We’re wonderful and lovely in a two arms, two legs, and a minimum of ten toes kind of way, and that, that simplicity, thank you Newton, is comfort enough, solace to anyone who might need it. Does it make me feel better? Do I feel perhaps relieved to know that since I am human and he is human that we’re perfectly matched? Newton might say we are. The numbers five and seven make the number fifty-six, why can’t Mr. Wooster and I make an equally compelling and gorgeous number? I could be with him! So we are of the same gender animal, what does that matter, we still fit together, we fit perfectly, as we’d observed so fervently. I don’t care about this job! It’s just a job! It’s nothing to me! I don’t care about cleaning or clothes or shoes or cuff links, I honestly don’t buggering care! I only want him!

Blinked, suddenly, looking at my work, I got everything done.

Rather quickly. For a moment I stood, in the middle of the room, like I’d just gotten there, and looked around me, seeing everything I’d done and didn’t immediately remember doing them. Odd, everything looked perfect but it seemed unusual because I don’t remember doing them. Although once you’ve done something enough times I suppose there’s no need to pay attention to details or speed or anything, you just do it. 

I stood for anther moment, hoping this one, this moment, would offer the answer to the question of why, why I was suddenly standing her, completely unaware of, totally unable to recall, but then why would I recall, it's not as if it’s important, its not, I just do my job, and can usually remember doing it, the last thirty minutes.

I suddenly felt like I was swaying and I looked at the carpet and saw it blur and bend and swirl and I ran a hand through my hair, finding my skin cold and clammy. And I couldn’t just stand there, one moment was too many, I needed to move. But where, what could I do? The room looked perfect, what could I do? I focused on the bed, and suddenly all the layers of sheets and blankets seemed completely and utterly askew and I shrugged and tore them from the bed. They simply can’t be such a mess, it’s a disgrace. They must be lined up. Perfectly.

Not to mention, not to think of, not to offer even the most pleading notion or the smallest morsel of a thought involving sheets and Mr. Wooster and naked flesh, naked, twisting, perfect in the sheets, the creaminess of his skin on the white cotton, the blue of his eyes reduced to slits as his fists grip and tear and pull at the sheets.

But the sheets aren’t acting right, They aren’t lining up. They aren’t lined up. I hopped on the bed and stared at the top two corners. Lord, this was impossible, no way, no way in hell would they match up, they’ll never match up.

"Jeeves?"

"Sir?" Sat back on my heels, suddenly aware, deeply, insuperably aware, he was in the room, "I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, I was trying to make the bed, it’s been giving me difficulty, I can’t seem to make it line up for some reason."

"I see," he said and my eyes wouldn’t focus on him as he closed the door after him and strode into the room, "Well, I’m back now, as you can rightly see—I’ve been sunned, charmed and put right on center stage and I think maybe—I say, Jeeves, are you alright, you seem a bit jittery."

"Am I alright, sir? Yes, yes, quite alright, thank you. And sorry for saying sir. Bertie. It’s just these sheets are terrible, completely incorporative, I can’t imagine what the problem is, really, I’ve been working all the time you were gone, got everything done of course, but these sheets are—you were gone, did it go well, I mean, how is she, how does she seem?"

"Jeeves," he said much too slowly, "Is there something the matter?"

"What?" I sat back on my heels and then back on my arse so I was sitting on the bed, one leg over the side, and my mind sorted and brought up a million answers and I didn’t know which one to say,

"Well, actually, I admit I’m a little—I’m sorry sir, I seem to be a bit distracted," I brought a hand to my head and was tremendously aware that he’d stepped forward and had lifted one knee to the bed so he could lean in and place a hand on my forehead, pushing back my dark hair that had come to fall over my face, a look of concern heavy on his face.

"Jeeves, you’re all sweaty and shaky—you’re not alright, what’s happened?"

"I don’t know, I don’t know," I said and closed my eyes which felt hot and feverish, his hand still on my forehead. I felt suddenly very frightened. My heart was beating so fast, “I can’t catch my breath,” I gasped, “My heart,”

"Well just calm down, you’re alright, just take it easy," he said, moving to place a hand over my heart. I felt moved to tears suddenly, my emotions were so unbearably strong and I needed comfort so badly. I caught his hand in mine, the one on my forehead, and brought his knuckles to my lips, kissing them warmly.

"Jeeves," he said, but didn’t pull away. I kissed every one, each perfect knuckle, moving to the fingers, not even bothering to look at his face, able to feel his pulse through his wrist. Kissed the beating there, licking my tongue out at the faint throbbing.

"Jeeves," he said, and I felt a small resistance, "Hold on a moment,"

I looked up at him and saw his lips, his perfect lips, so brilliant, with a lower lip that begged to be sucked, an upper lip which pleaded to be licked, a mouth, eyes that seemed to be calling to me, I couldn’t resist. I rocked forward on the bed and caught his lips in mine, hungry, so hungry, needing, wanting—and I felt him push. Pushing away?

"Jeeves!" he gasped and I was suddenly aware we weren’t kissing, "What are you doing? Stop, you mustn’t do this, I mean it."

"Sorry," I breathed, "Sorry, sorry, god I’m sorry—I don’t feel well, I don’t— I can’t sit still, I can’t slow down, I’m thinking a million things a minute, I can’t slow it down!" I stood up and started to pace, breathing hard. What was the matter with me? I shouldn’t be acting this way.

"Are you ill?" he asked in near panic, eyes wide, shrugging helplessly, one hand running over his mouth quickly as he tried to seek out answers, eyes following me as I paced, "You haven’t been drinking—maybe you ate something, or—"

"That’s it!" I interrupted, stopping for a moment in the middle of the room then starting again,

"Christ, the chocolate."

"Chocolate? What chocolate?"

"He gave it to me—one of Miss Moniz’s men—lord, I should have known, he practically—but what? What was in it?"

"Hold on," Mr. Wooster said, "Are you saying someone’s poisoned you?! We have to call the police!" he sidestepped in front of me, right in my path, stopping me with a hand on my arm.

"No!" I shouted.

"Someone tried to kill you!"

"They drugged me, they didn’t try and kill me," I corrected, and I could feel my shoulders shaking as I stood, one of his hands on my arm, the room blurring around me, all except his face which was clear.

"Drugged you?" he let out a startled breath, "Why?"

"I’ll be alright, I think," I pushed him lightly out of the way and kept moving, holding a hand over my mouth, "I don’t know, I can’t sit still, I feel—I feel terrible, and wonderful, I feel so alive, I’m thinking a million things at once and I can’t even tell you what one of them is," when I rounded again on him, his face frightened and appalled I stopped, "I’m sorry, sir, so sorry," I tried catching my breath, "I’m sorry, I can’t control this, I’m trying—"

"Stop saying sorry!" he nearly shouted, "I’m not mad at you," he exhaled sharply, somewhere between a growl and a sign, eyes glancing toward the door, then back to me, for a moment silent, pensive, tongue playing along the inside of his cheek, "This is an extremely unusual situation, Jeeves, and what I’m going to ask now will seem even stranger—I’m afraid our roles will have to be reversed for the time being, at least until whatever this is wears off, so just tell me, what can I do to help you?"

"I just need something to do," I said, "I think, not sure, but I heard about something like this being used with the Germans during the war, I never thought I’d experience it, and it's beyond me why they’re being given it, besides the obvious of course, overall its not unpleasant, though I don’t think I could feel this way all the time."

"Right," he said, hands together in front of him, "So you need something to do, um," he bit at his lower lip, eyes to the ceiling, "Give me a moment, one minute, all right? Do not leave this room, alright? I’ll be back in the smallest of moments."

"Yes, sir," I acknowledge and he darted out of the room in haste.

When he got back he was carrying a large wooden chest, closing the door behind him and carrying the chest to a table by the window where he set it down with a huff, "Well, you’ll like this, found it in sort of a dodgy back room, over in the eastern corner of the manor," he gestured in what I assumed was the direction in question, "And I told my insipid relative that I was exhausted, could barely stand, simply must take a nap before doing myself serious injury and she seemed to buy it, so," he shrugged, "We should be safe."

The chest was full of very old, very tarnished silverware. We set to work polishing it right away, sitting at the table with the drapes drawn. No words were spoken and besides a nervousness and worry I could feel resonating off of Mr. Wooster in waves he seemed intent to sit there and polish with me, if that’s what it took. I simply needed to do something, something to focus on, and I admit, this was helping. But after a time the silence was getting to me and I had to say something to him and for once my inhibitions were not in the way.

"I am the way I am," I said, paused, agnozied, "And if you only knew how hard I try to be perfect for you, as your valet. It’s all I care about. My hidden qualities aside."

"You are a perfect valet ," he said simply, “And I couldn’t think ill of you. Would be hypocritical, eh.” He reached for another fork and turned it around in his long fingers, brow knitted, mouth screwed to the side, "What do you say, are these two hundred years old? Dread the day I’ll ever have to nibble a turnip off of a piece of silverware that looks like this, let me tell you," he picked up a rag and I felt his eyes flicker to mine, watching me carefully, worry straining his next words, clashing with his forced casual tone, "There’s nothing wrong with feeling something for someone. I’ve come to peace with such feelings, for women or, as it happens, men. People cast their aspersions, regardless. We kissed each other yes. Ardently yes. A couple of times. We properly snogged, one couldn’t argue, without a doubt a real arousal was observed by all involved. And now we know. Which means quite a lot," he stopped polishing to hold the silver out in front of him, turning it in a way toward the light that made it glint and shine.

What love I had for him swelled tenfold at this moment. That and admiration. How had he come to such peace? How could he feel these things absent of all strife and self-hatred. A truly special quality surpassing any prior mention of broad-mindedness. It needn't be explained to me the resilience, the fine intelligence and grace of this man. Such qualities were easy to observe for those looking past his most basic qualities. Indeed beyond what he allowed others to see, perhaps. Another way he bested me and a way I must strive to be.

He looked back at me, "Feeling better?"

"I am," I answered, hands at work, focusing, almost, on polishing in the most repetitive, comforting, thorough way I knew, lining each one up back in their case so they looked perfect. I took a break long enough to look up, if only for a moment, eyes darting from his hands which really were terrible at polishing silverware, then up to his face and saw relief when I finally met his eyes.

"Don’t worry about any of this now," he told me, "I will take care of you," he raised his chin, nodding with pride, then his blue eyes lowered and a sad smirk slid over his lips, "You’ve had to deal with me enough times,” he set down the spoon he was working on, “Besides I rather like seeing the human side of you, soft belly and all, now and again,” he thought for a moment, “I remember one summer evening, couple years back, I crept home after a long walk out with Tuppy, hoping for a sundown cool down in our fair city. Alas no, and so tired, sweaty and bound for bed was I that I went straight to my room. I got up some time later for some water and, I must have been as silent as a moggy because there you sat in the kitchen, your den of sorts, just in your vest, legs up on the table, hair loose about your face, drinking a glass of lemonade and reading a book,” he sat back, eyes bright, a smile wide on his face, “I remember thinking, I’ve never seen so much of his bare skin, what a lovely complexion ol’Jeeves has. Not to mention your long legs and dashed bare feet. I crept away before you knew I was there. You were so relaxed, as I’d not seen. I quite liked that glow about you, stayed with me for days, I’ll admit.”

“I tried very hard for you to never see me that way.”

“Why?”

“Guidelines of my job prohibit being caught unprepared and undignified.”

“Well you can forget that rubbish for now, I like you either way. More so even,” he grinned again, having completely stopped polishing, “Especially that soft patch of skin right under your ear that makes you utter the most undignified sound imaginable.”

“There is the matter of the general public who would be far from interested in such details or sounds. From either of us.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of their business,” he stood, placing one knee on the chair he was just sitting on, tucking his thumbs into the band of his trousers, “What a gentleman and their sometimes valet get up to at home is unlikely to come up in conversation, what.”

“I would hope not,” I agreed, setting a serving spoon in its place, “Am I to--,” I frowned, thoughts still a jumble, feeling a sudden fatigue creep into my limbs, “Am I understanding that you would continue with me in this new capacity?”

“Continue with you?,” he chortled, “I was the one that started this thing. Rather Bingo and his wellspring of worries and martinis. Given the choice I wouldn’t have had it happen that way, if I’m honest. I didn’t know your thoughts on the matter. I only assumed they were tidier, more organized than my own. Think not I’m some exalted being, Jeeves, I’ve not shouted this to or from any mountain top,” his expression hardened, “Rather in the darkest times I was forced to admit the truth or drown in the misery of it all. I thought you’d be gone the following morning, glad to be rid of your poofter of an employer.”

“Perhaps you sensed something in me that gave you hope otherwise.” I let me forehead fall in my hands, “Excuse me, sir,”

“Jeeves?”

All the sharpness and clarity of the last hours was fading into nothingness, replaced by the feeling of cement blocks hanging from my every limb, “I”m suddenly very tired.”

“One wouldn’t wonder. Come on, off to bed,”

He took my arm and lifted me best he could. I didn’t even have the energy to protest lying in his bed. Especially since I’d torn it up and wouldn’t have a chance to right it again.

“I’ll be going to dinner, Jeeves, but I will attempt to abbreviate it, best I can,” he removed my shoes and loosened my collar, drawing the covers over me, “I’ll be back, Jeeves. Sleep,” I felt his lips on my forehead and the room dimmed as he left.


	6. A Morning

I first awoke still inside my dream. The fading, ruined backdrop of what must have been a nightmare began to fall away and I had the most disturbing sensation of crawling uphill through mud back into consciousness.

I didn’t immediately know where I was, any orientation to place and time were delayed, like a line being drawn back into a boat. About the first thing I was aware of was my head which was throbbing in pain. Secondly, according to my well honed internal clock, it was about 6:30 in the morning. My eyes adjusted enough to look out the eastern window and observed a pale blue and pink sky. The sun had just begun to rise. And thirdly, with much more difficulty, I remembered where I was. Not at home. 

Details, regrettable details fell back into place like boulders in my mind. Mr. Wooster’s inexorable engagement, being drugged, intentionally or not, the fearful face of Muniz’s man that I could not explain, all a jumble of misarranged images and sensations. I frantically, and with sick bile in my throat, recalled my actions, which though outside my control, caused shame to seep darkly through the cracks and holes in my already unsteady memory. I desperately tried to remember all I’d said or done. 

I rolled onto my back, pressing my fingertips into my temples with a groan. God, how embarrassing.Taking a deep breath I suddenly smelled--Mr. Wooster. Turning my head on the soft pillow I saw him next to me in bed. I’d never slept in such a large bed. He was curled on his side, facing me but not touching. My eyes remained on his still form for some time, transfixed by the steady rise and fall of his chest and the soft puffs of breath from his slightly open mouth. He’d crawled under the quilt on the bed but wasn’t under the sheets. He must have been trying not to wake me. Looking away from him for a moment I realized I was indeed just wearing my vest and pants. Memory of how I came to be undressed was not available. Had he done it? I looked to the side of the bed and saw my clothes on the floor. Yes he had. 

Being constitutionally of an energetic nature, it was a rare sight for me to see Mr. Wooster in a true posture of repose, with no obligation to disturb, so often it was my duty to rouse him. I let him lie there for the time being, enjoying the morning sun slowly lighting his face. Traces of my memory of the night before, of polishing silver and an unexpected kindness, danced across my mind like light on water. He was truly and utterly beautiful.

I heard no sounds from other rooms or floors of the building which helped alleviate some of my worry at being caught. So used was I to being up before everyone else. But not today. Though I’m sure I’d slept deeply I felt poorly. My head continued to ache and my stomach was torn between being terribly nauseous and hungry. 

Everything had changed. In a matter of days my predictable, small world, had been turned on its head. And though it would appear all I ever wanted, all I dreamed about, I wasn’t filled with solace and gratitude. How would my life, our life, look now? Was I up to taking this risk? Was he? I never considered myself a brave man. But I’ve tried to be a good man.

Glancing to the side of my bed I saw a large glass of water. I was suddenly devastatingly thirsty. Doing my very best not to move too quickly I sat up and, sitting against the headboard of the bed, I drank the whole glass in one delicious breath.

A small sigh next to me alerted me that my efforts to not wake him had been unsuccessful.

“Ugh,” he moaned, stretching out his legs, “Jeeves, what time is it?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,”

“Owls aren’t even to bed yet, why in God’s name are you awake?” 

“Thirsty.” 

“You need rest,” he groaned, eyes still closed as he kicked at the covers, “Stay,” once he’d kicked down the sheets, he slid closer to me and pulled them back over us both, settling deeply into the pillow next to me. 

“What if someone comes looking for us?”

“The only person who would be looking for me at this hour is you. And you’re here,” he grumbled pointedly, throwing an arm over my waist and pulling me to him, resting his head on my chest, “Took me three years to loosen so much as your collar. Give it ten minutes Jeeves.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” I answered, after a moment. Ten minutes, “I’m afraid it will be harder for me to relax. In general I have less trust in the universe being kind. Especially in a situation like this,” and in a gesture that still felt so new, so impossible, so inextricably exciting, I put my arm around him, letting him curl tighter into me. Despite all the trepidation, whether it was my compromised constitution or just being content in this moment, I wasn’t thinking about my current lack of personal grooming or appropriate attire, where normally I'd be self conscious I was unexpectedly unconcerned with him seeing me as I was. He seemed completely accepting, I’m not sure why I would have thought otherwise, but unavoidably I regard this all too human form, on most days, as bothersome and burdensome. I let a sigh leave my chest and closed my eyes again.

“I know,” he said with quiet understanding, “But we can pretend for ten minutes,” I felt him inhale deeply, “Good lord, you smell amazing. Your musk no doubt being one of the undignified-s, eh?”

“Musk?” I objected to the word but couldn't help but agree, “Yes, I am but an animal,” I let my hand stroke up and down his side, from the hardness of his hip bone, the rise and fall of his ribs, along the lean muscles of his back, “Of course, god forbid I let anyone see that inescapable fact. How unbecoming of a valet,” I held him closer, “Genetically I always imagined my whole family smelled the same. Of earth and wood and stone. No matter what I wear, or how I act, the generations of hard labor are written into my pores,”

“You wanted away from all that?” he asked softly, never having asked many personal questions before.

“Yes,” I answered, “More than anything,” I felt my heart beat faster, “And they wanted rid of me as well.”

“You should be proud of that. Setting your own path.”

“I am at times.”

One of his feet stretched to run down one of my own, curiously running his toes along the length of my foot, “I never felt I had the chance,” he paused, “Even if I did, not sure what I would have done with it.”

“You would have thrived, I know it.”

“Perhaps,” he had begun stroking my chest through my shirt until his fingers found a nipple which slowly started to encircle it, “Curious thing yesterday,” he said in a rapid change of subject, “This Aurelia woman, god, you couldn’t imagine, well, maybe you could, she’s the sort that raises the hairs on ones neck.”

“She was unkind?”

“Not at all. She was  _ only  _ kind. And only seemed partially interested in me, really.”

“What was she interested in?”

“Quite worldly actually. She spoke a lot of art and history and current affairs. Left me in the dust. Very unlike many of the potentials I’ve met.”

“Indeed. In combination with my experience yesterday it raises many questions,” my nipple had hardened under his fingers which seemed to delight him.

“She very well could be an ambitious, seize the day type person, nothing more, but I got the distinct impression she couldn’t care less about me,” he lean back so his eyes met mine and narrowed in a questioning expression, “She also hated me smoking, looked positively appalled by the action.” 

“Her intentions are yet unknown. And I daresay you should indulge your tobacco habit at every opportunity.”

“Yes, you’re right. We will venture to figure it out today, Jeeves. She may have scouted me as an easy target but will rue the day she underestimated me. Particularly with our two heads together.” A small gasp escaped my lips as his teeth found my nipple through my shirt, “Curious reaction there,” he grinned up at me.

“I thought we only had ten minutes.”

“Five now, I reckon,” he suddenly, in one easy movement, rolled on top of me, stradling my hips.

“Five minutes,” I cleared my throat, “Should we really engage in, uh, physicality, when your relatives and your intended are within the same walls?” He raised his arms and took his shirt off, “My god,” I gasped, staring at his bare form on top of me, my heart beat screaming through my whole body. I’d of course seen him undressed before, in the bath or getting ready, but this was entirely different. I was able to actually look at him, noting every detail, naming him as I’d always wanted as absolute perfection to me. His chest was slightly flushed, light hair across his chest darkening as it moved downward to the sizable bulge under his pants. My own growing erection pressed into his thigh, “I am of course very eager to continue on from where we were so rudely interrupted, and far be it for me to deny that this exact scenario has not been the theme of many of my daydreams,” he began to tug at my own shirt, pulling it over my head somewhat roughly, leaving me naked and breathless before him, “Though that was without the considerable complications of your potential marriage to a woman with questionable motives and an aunt I feel is suspicious of me and my interference in your,” he lowered himself to kiss hard on the lips, slipping his legs between mine and lining up our hips so he could grind into me. The feel of skin on skin, our bare chest against one another, lighted every nerve in my body, causing my heart to leap with gratification and anticipation, “Your,” I groaned as he kissed my neck, rocking upwards so our erections met with enough pressure to put the tectonic plates to shame, “Your, oh god, Bertie,”

“You talk too much,” he said from my collar bone, hands mapping out every inch of the exposed flesh, fingers curling into the darker, thicker hairs on my chest, “One of the many things I would like to teach you, Jeeves, how to get out of that dashed head of yours.”

He began to kiss me and with every kiss he inched lower and lower and I began to shift and squirm under him. The soft skin to the inside of my hip bone elicited a sharp gasp and caused me to grip his shoulders, holding him still for a moment. My erection was clear and urgent under the thin fabric of my pants. He paused and looked up at me before releasing it. My hard cock sprung from its confines and I felt a spark of fear and insecurity. His eyes instead widened and his mouth hung open.

“Sir,” I said, lapsing into habits.

Looking up at me from between my legs, an image entirely too obscene and beautiful for my fragile mind to withstand, he asked in a throaty voice, “Can I make you cum? Please, let me do this for you.”

The question was enough to cause my balls to tighten. “Yes,”

He made no hesitation. His lips found the head of my cock, tongue circled and wet the tip with a hearty groan. One hand suddenly grasped me at the base and slid upwards over my whole length while his mouth met the head again, dripping with his saliva.  The hot wetness of his mouth overwhelmed me, causing my hips to jerk upwards, knowing in every way possible that this was right and beautiful, it couldn’t be anything else, not when we were together.  And suddenly he took all of me into his mouth and I cried out, immediately biting down on my own lip as he bobbed his head, the slick wetness and tightness running up and down my aching cock. Through hand and mouth and tongue, god his tongue, I felt the entire planet slip away. My hips rose into his mouth, unheeded, my breath became harsh, quickened. 

“God god god, uh, uh,” as deep in his throat I felt myself tipping over the edge, “Nguh, Bertie,” I gasped, hand moving to his head, grasping his hair, god holding him to me. He hummed in affirmation and in two more bucks of my hips I spilled into his mouth, my vision turning white around the edges as I cried out, caught in the ebs, drowned in long lost ecstacy.

When I was finally ready to open my eyes I saw him licking his lips, crawling up to me, “Never underestimate a Wooster,” he said.


	7. A Challenge

I guided the door closed behind me, softly settling it into its frame in order to make as little noise as possible in the dimly lit hallway of the mansion. I was forced, considering my state of outer and hygienic disarray, to look fervently up and down the rows of closed doors, ears stretched to catch the sound of an approaching footfall in case a rapid exit was necessitated. I’d put on the clothes I’d worn yesterday with great distress. They’d laid on the floor all night and were shocking to behold. I may have felt a more heightened level of self consciousness if it weren’t for the urgent need to right myself and return to my duties.

Satisfied by the vacancy of the hallways I ran my hands over my hair, trying to smooth it down with little success, and dashed down the hall to the servant’s stairway, down several floors to my own quarters. Safety in my room I was able to dress and clean myself to my professional and personal standards of togetherness. 

I’d left Mr. Wooster to dress himself. He’d laid back on the pillows, watching me dress with satisfied glee, taunting me to return to the warm bed which part of me desperately wanted to, not for sleep, but to return the generosity he afforded me, to see his skin glisten and blush and for him to gasp out my name in rapture. I was desperate to find out what noises he made, what parts of his body were sensitive to my hands or tongue, how hard I could make him cum, how his skin would taste salty and his chest would heave and his blue, blue eyes would roll back into his head. We’d both known we had to return to our established roles though that undeniable fact didn’t stop me from stealing one last kiss from him. 

Standing in front of the small mirror in my quarters, combing my hair, I couldn’t help but smile. In fact I felt completely incapable of not grinning idiotically. How could I not? When what had felt like the chains and boulders of a life never to be realized to its full potential were released, sinking to the depths as I raced to the surface and gulped fresh clean air again, and a heart near to the point of atrophy was gifted new life within my exhausted body. I have observed the effect romantic entanglement can have on the human male but never thought I would be so utterly susceptible. It was only with great effort that more discernible, prescriptive thoughts made it through the purely corporeal haze and into the present. I had to get down to the kitchen and check in with the rest of the staff.

When I was satisfied that I didn’t look as if I’d just come naked and breathless from my master’s bedroom I took a moment to look myself square in the eyes. The face that looked back at me, despite the years etched thereupon, suddenly appeared only as the young man leaving home so many years ago, unsure of himself, excited to work, to make something of himself, to leave the past where it was.  _ The fearless are never brave _ , I’d told myself then, and I told myself the same now, letting that young unsure part of me be comforted by the older, hopefully wiser part of myself I’d grown into. Was being wise following your heart? I wasn’t sure. 

I left the seclusion of that room and headed to the kitchen. When I got there I saw one woman and a younger man engaged in various breakfast related activities.

“Good morning,” I announced myself, reaching for an apron hanging next to the door. As I rolled up my sleeves I worried about not having taken a shower. Did I smell? God I want his smell all over me. 

“Alright,” the younger man greeted from across the room. He was holding a stack of plates in his arms, “You’re with Mr. Wooster, are ya?” he was quickly moving out the door into the dining room so I wasn’t able to answer in the affirmative before he was gone.

“Don’t mind him,” the woman said from the stove as I finished tying the apron around me, “Always rushing about. He broke four plates yesterday--told him if he did that again I’d kick him dead,”

“Quite alright,” I assured, surveying the room. Porridge, fruit, coffee, tea and danish. A light breakfast. Everything cold was already plated and ready, the porridge remained. “Apologies for not being here sooner, Mr. Wooster was--”

“No need to explain, darling, they are all the same aren’t they, poor dears,” she sighed, stirring a large pot of porridge with one hand and running her sleeve over her brow with the other, “No disrespect of course.” 

I raised my eyebrows, “Of course not,” I cleared my throat, “May I assist in setting up the table or may I help you here?”

“What a gentleman you are,” she smiled. She had a warm and hearty laugh. Her face was round and eyes bright. It pleased me to find someone friendly in the kitchen.

“Jeeves is it? I’m Mary, that bragard was my son Paul and my husband John has the table out there.”

“A pleasure meeting you all.” 

“If you could lift this pot, love,” she stepped back, hand braced on her lower back, “My back’s gone out, I could use a break from the heavy lifting.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said stepping forward with several towels guarding my hands. “Where would you like it?”

“On the counter there,” she pointed, “Needs to be put in the tray there too, if you don’t mind. I need to rest for a tic,” she sat down on a nearby stool with a moan.

I lifted the large cast iron pot and put it down next to the fine silver tray, glancing to her still rubbing at her lower back and looking me over, “My, my, you’re a big one aren’t ya?”

“Taller than average,” I agreed, scooping the porridge into the silver.

“My John’s a small man,” she mused, “Course I’m a small woman,” she added, “Never bothered me, all four foot somethin of me, works out fine, really, he don’t steal all the covers at night, know what I mean?” she laughed again.

I smiled, unable not to think about Mr. Wooster and I sleeping curled up together, “Has your family been in the employ of the Muniz family for long?”

“Oh yes, for a stretch,” she thought a moment, “Paul was five years old when we started.”

Interesting, “How do you find it?”

“Not without its challenges,” she sighed, “Not easy getting old, pet, not that I want to complain, no, no, she’s been good to us, she has,”

“I’m glad to hear that,”

“Course it's different now with David and Benjamin gone, young lads they were, like yourself.”

“They moved on?”

“Not by choice,” she hung her head, “No, not by choice, poor boys were sacked not two weeks ago?”

“How unfortunate,”

“Hard workers too, not a bad thing to say about neither of them. Her ladyship has her strong opinions, as you rightly know. All she said was they reflected poorly on her, and sent them off. Think they ended up in France, last they wrote.”

“Certainly it means more work for your family,”

“Quite right it does. Paul don’t mind, he’s got all the energy on this green earth but my poorly body,” she shook her head.

“Does your lady know you are injured?”

“Oh she does,” she groaned, “Don’t you worry about it though, it’ll pass, I don’t want to complain.”

“But perhaps you need to see a doctor?”

“Maybe, maybe, “ she said in a distracted way, getting up after such a short rest, “M’lady doesn’t love doctors, prefers more natural remedies,”

“Natural?”

“Well, sort of, “ she limped forward, “Paul, get a move on with the tea!” she shouted, then at me, moving behind me back to the stove, her hands trailing along my back to steady herself, “Take that out there will yah, almost time,” she patted my lower back, “Strong lad, you are, how about that, John,” she said as if he could hear her, “We got a good one, here,” then back at me, “Welcome home,”

My eyes widened and I paused, tray in hand, struck by the small statement. Home? This wasn’t my home. I wouldn’t want to live here for another day let alone for the rest of my life. Nor would I want Mr. Wooster here. My home, my heart, I would hold close to me. And figure out a way out of this. 

>>>>>>>

She wore a pale blue blazer, stiff white collared shirt and beige riding trousers. Her hair was clipped behind her ears and twin pearl earrings hung from her delicate ears. She sat tall and straight at the table, sipping a cup of coffee with an air of satisfaction and comfort.

Mr. Wooster had just sat down across from her. I remained in the corner of the room, near the window so he could settle, a coffee pot in hand. Though I’d left him to dress himself with the intention of tarnishing her ladyship’s approval of him, to a point, I had difficulty not showing my shock at his chosen ensemble for the day. He wore his dark blue jacket with his brown pants and an apricot coloured shirt. The tie I do not remember packing. It was covered in stars. We’d been in such a rush he must have slipped past me. His hair was also extremely disorderly, he may have brushed it but that only increased its volume. I reminded myself it was part of a plan, a rapidly conceived plan, but intentional nonetheless. I was surprised, however, to find a part of myself, perhaps the part that had just been running their hands through those silken curls at the momentous point of orgasm not thirty minutes ago, found his haphazard appearance very appealing. I glanced furtively at Miss Muniz and saw her raise her chin slightly at his appearance but she made no comment. 

Striving to keep a straight, expressionless, face I moved behind Mr. Wooster to pour his coffee for him after he’d turned over his cup. 

“Thank you, Jeeves,” he said, blue eyes flickering upward to mine for the briefest of moments. I didn’t miss the tug of a covert smile on his face and prayed I wouldn’t blush.

“Did you sleep well, Aurelia?” he asked through an unlit cigarette he’d pulled from his silver case. He lit it swiftly and exhaled sharply.

Her eyes narrowed so slightly you would never have noticed, “Beautifully, I do so love the country. And you, Mr. Wooster?”

“Like a kitten. Purred the whole night through,” he took a sip of coffee through a large exhale of smoke, “Jeeves practically had to leap upon my prone unclothed form to rouse me for the day.” 

I cleared my throat loud enough for him to turn to me, frowning.

“I’m glad he did,” she said, taking a small bite of a strawberry, “I’m very excited to take you riding today. Does he have riding clothes Mr. Jeeves?”

“I’m afraid not, madam,” I answered, setting down a plate of danish and fruit in front of Mr. Wooster, “Mr. Wooster has never ridden a horse.”

“Not true Jeeves, I have. When I was a boy, one of my school mates had a small stable of beasts. Invited me for a ride. He rode this lovely orangey fellow, legendary looking stead. And the poor blighter he reserved for yours truly was nothing but a spindly old brown thing. Reminded me of an old dead tree on the grounds of my childhood home. Really ought to have cut the tree down but I begged my parents not to because there were several families of squirrels living in it; couldn’t bear to see them dislocated,” he seemed lost in thought and puffed on his cigarette, presumably in requiem for the squirrels.

“It was an unpleasant ride?” she asked, snapping him out of it.

“As one would imagine. Old horse laid down for a nap mid ride, with me on him,” he frowned again, “Or I hope it was just a nap, can’t fully remember,”

“How dreadful.”

Mr. Wooster took a large bite of danish.

“We will have to create a new, better memory of riding perhaps,” she said, “I’m sure the clothes you have on will be . . . fine,” she took her last sip of coffee. I moved to refill her cup, “No thank you,” she said, pushing the saucer away, “Jeeves, have him ready in fifteen minutes please, at the stable.”

“Yes, madam,” I nodded.

“And refrain from smoking please around the horses, it sets them illatease,”

“But I don’t know how to ride horses,” Mr. Wooster protested.

“I will teach you.”

“Do I at least have boots, Jeeves?” he asked me.

“I’m afraid I didn’t pack them,” I said and Miss. Muniz’s eyes shot to me with a sudden ferocity, “Sir,” I added, heart leaping into my throat.

“Alright then,” Mr. Wooster stubbed out his cigarette, “Let me finish my cup of coffee and by all means, lets ride,” he hunched over his plate and sipped at his coffee. 

Miss. Muniz left the table but not before looking at me again, smiling slightly. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love Jeeves and Wooster, and indeed in the same breath, I love Stephen and Hugh. Comments are also love.


End file.
